


The War Comes To Downton Abbey

by silverducks



Category: Downton Abbey
Genre: F/M, Gen, Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2011-07-24
Updated: 2012-08-28
Packaged: 2017-10-21 17:46:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 33,516
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/227896
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/silverducks/pseuds/silverducks
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>As the first World War rages on, the lives of those at Downton Abbey will be forever changed. What happens to those left behind at the great estate? Mainly Mary/Matthew, but also including most series 1 characters and other ships too.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

_NB - I started writing and planning this a while before the series 2 spoilers came out. Therefore, this is already set AU, though it was originally intended as a possible series 2 story arc. I hope you take this into account whilst reading and that, even though it's now proved to be AU, it still feels like a realistic and plausible possibility for the second series of the show._

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 **May 1916**

That evening, like every other for the past year, they were eating dinner in the upstairs drawing room. It wasn't a big room, but ever since the house had been turned into a hospital, they'd had little choice. All the stately rooms had been turned into sick rooms and eating dinner in a dining room full of bleeding soldiers and the smell of sickness was not that conducive to ones appetite. So they'd been crammed in this little room; trying to eat and maintain some degree of dignity, some small element of the life they'd once lived. It wasn't easy, but at dinner they tried their best; eating and talking and pretending that things were very much as they ever had been. Before the hospital, before the war, before their lives started spinning out of control.

That evening though, their pretence was cut short by the sudden appearance of a young nurse at the open door. They weren't used to being disturbed at dinner, let alone by a lowly nurse. Her somewhat irrelevant knocking only jarred the peace and illusion of a few moments ago.

The nurse looked at them anxiously as she slowly entered the room, feeling their eyes watching her intently, as if waiting for her to stumble. Luckily she didn't, though she was so nervous she momentarily forgot the reason for her visit. It was her first time in front of the grand family and her first time upstairs in this great house. She'd seen them before of course, but never had she actually dared speak to them.

Since the hospital had invaded a year ago, there was an unwritten and unspoken agreement between the Crawleys and the hospital staff – they could have their run of the large stately rooms, the servant's quarters and the downstairs area, barring the kitchen of course. The upstairs area, well, that was reserved for the Crawleys. Only their household servants and high ranking hospital staff dare venture up there. They couldn't grumble too much though, despite all the frequent complaints from the new nurses. The Crawleys had, after all, been quite generous and accepting of their home being turned into a hospital. Well, most had been, though no one liked to comment on why the Dowager Countess' visits were so rare these days.

The news had been too important to wait though. The Matron had insisted that the news be taken at once to the family – there was no time to find an appropriate member of staff to rely the message. The nurse had volunteered to be the messenger immediately, not wanting to miss her first opportunity of seeing the grand people and the world they inhabited upstairs. Now that she stood in front of them though, her confidence waived. They were watching her attentively, soup spoons held expectantly at their mouths, silent as they awaited the news.

“An injured soldier has just been brought in, m'Lord,” the nurse began, suddenly worried about whether she'd used the right address. She hadn't yet learnt all the proper ways to address these grand people whose home she now inhabited.

The family looked surprised at the news. Something was wrong, very wrong. It wasn't usual for the family to be told about a new soldier and certainly not at this time of night, at dinner! Soldiers came and went, so frequently nowadays, and no one like bothering the grand people upstairs and upsetting the ladies with bad news.

A thousand worried thoughts started to run through all their minds, echoing out in the troubled glances passing between them. None of them dared speak, dared voice their concerns, as if voicing their sudden dread would give it life. It swept through them still though, like an icy mist, filling them with fear and foreboding.

Mary herself felt it most keenly. Her heart started to pound as the icy mist of dread ran through her veins. She didn't dare think of what the news might be, but she couldn't deny the strange awareness that was sweeping over her, threatening to bring her world crashing down. She tried to prepare herself mentally, to steel her emotions away where they wouldn't betray her, not even to herself. She forced herself to take a deep breath and focused all her attention on the nurse in front of her.

The nurse shifted awkwardly from one foot to the other, watching the grand people exchange stunned looks before turning to watch her intently again. Their penetrating eyes were making it difficult for her to speak.

“His name is Crawley, Sir,” she eventually blurted out, before realising she'd been impolite in both her manner and address.

None of them cared about that though. The moment the words were out all the soup spoons hit the table with a cacophonous noise that echoed round the room, as loud as church bells after the sudden silence.

The ladies round the table gasped and Lord Grantham stood up immediately, “What's his first name!” He barked out, his countenance so fierce that the nurse cowered back in shock.

“Ma-Mathew m'Lord,” she stammered out, before cowering back even further beneath his piercing gaze.

The name cut through the air like a knife to the heart. There was a moment of complete silence, the atmosphere in the air as hard as steel and as cold as ice. Time itself seem to freeze in place. Thousands of possibilities flew through their minds, each of them envisaging the worst.

Despite Mary mentally preparing herself, the sudden blow of hearing his name sent a searing shockwave of pain through her heart. She forgot to breathe as image after image bombarded her mind, of Matthew, her beloved Matthew, lying broken and bloodied, his once handsome face twisted beyond recognition.

“Is it our Matthew?” Her father asked suddenly, breaking the terrible silence with his urgent demand. It was a good question and one that had been on the edge of all their tongues. None of them questioned the use of the word _our_. After his departure, the whole family had felt the empty void where his warmth and humour had been. Despite their difficult beginnings and their very different outlooks on life, Matthew and his mother really had become a part of their family before the war started.

All eyes were turned to the nurse again, waiting for confirmation of their worst fears.

“We don't know m'Lord,” the nurse answered, looking at them guiltily. Their reactions were as she'd feared and she herself felt somehow responsible for having to break it to them. She felt especially guilty because she could not answer the big important question. How could she? None of the hospital staff had ever seen this Matthew Crawley, though they'd certainly heard all about him. They all knew he was the heir to the estate, even though he wasn't Lord Grantham's son. That was why as soon as the soldier's name had become known, she'd been sent upstairs at once.

The answer did nothing to ease the dread that had seized them all, it only served to heighten it. None of them were sure what they wanted to hear – if it was _their_ Matthew, then he must be in a terrible state – the ashen face of the nurse told them that. If I wasn't Matthew though, it meant he was still out there, still fighting in the war, still not safe at Downton like he should be.

“How bad are the injuries?” Lord Grantham asked, quietly now, as the full horror of the situation started to set in.

The nurse shifted uncomfortably again, she'd been dreading this question; the one which she knew would only confirm all their worst fears.

“I've been told not to say, m'Lord.”

Though the words came as no surprise to them, they were the final shock to their system. They all knew now that whoever this poor soldier was, his injuries and suffering must be vast. The soldiers who were brought here usually only suffered from mild injuries, or were in convalescence after being treated at the London or Home County hospitals. The journey up to Downton was long and those severely wounded wouldn't usually survive. There were exceptions of course, sometimes the southern hospitals were so much at breaking point, extreme measures had to be taken. Even for the more fortunate soldiers, the journey was fraught with problems and disease and infections spread far too easily.

For Mary, the words spurned her into action and she jumped up from her chair at once. “Where is he?” She demanded, trying to remember how to breathe.

“In the great hall m'Lady,” was the nurse's reply. She looked sadly at the grand lady. Everyone knew the rumours between the heir and the Lord's eldest daughter. This beautiful lady's reaction to the news only confirmed the truthfulness within them.

Mary wasn't after the nurse's sympathy though, or that of any of her family as they all shot worried glances at her. There was only one thing Mary could think of right now, only one thing she could do. She had to find out if the injured soldier lying battered downstairs was indeed her beloved Matthew.

With not a word or a glance at anyone, Mary hurried out of the room, her terror increasing with every step she took.

The family watched her leave, before looking awkwardly between them. Lady Grantham was the first to dare speak. “Shall we send for cousin Isobel?” She asked softly, her own maternal instincts kicking in. Even with only daughters, she could clearly imagine what all mothers with sons at war were going through – the dread that must fill their hearts every time any news appeared. Though she'd always resented not having a son, this war had taught her just how lucky she was.

“No,” Lord Grantham answered quickly, “we'll wait and see if it's Matthew first.” As he was besieged with questioning looks, he continued softly, trying to sound light heartened. “No point worrying her unnecessarily.”

Yes, they all could agree to that. Their own dread was so raw; they couldn't even begin to imagine what cousin Isobel would feel. The worst was not knowing, they all felt that. Not knowing the extent of the injuries and, above all, not knowing if it was indeed the right Matthew Crawley. Mistakes were often made now, too many soldiers were brought in, names, documents, items; they could all get lost, forgotten, misread. The poor soldier might not even be a Matthew, or a Crawley!

They had to find out though. That was uppermost in their minds. After exchanging a few more troubled glances, they all walked out of the room. Their paces steady, controlled, their voices silent as each became too consumed by the riot of possibilities that chased around their own thoughts.

No one spoke to the nurse, no one even remembered she was there. She crept back against the wall as the grand family walked away, their countenance morbidly reminiscent of a funeral march.

 ---------------------------------------------------

Mary was glad of the head start her family gave her. She felt safer away from their concerned looks and unspoken worries. Her footsteps were fast as she left the room and headed towards the great hall, but the nearer she got to the staircase, the more fear started to hold her back. As long as she didn't see him, there was still a small part of her that could imagine it wasn't him or that he wasn't that brutally injured. Her paced slowed as she reached the stairs and she paused completely at the top. She leant over and watched the chaos that was ensuing beneath her. The hall was littered with beds, bodies and blood.

The hall was usually relatively quiet, with the soldiers beds kept mainly in the stately rooms. Sometimes though, when a large transport of soldiers arrived, the rooms overflowed and soldiers were left in the hall, waiting to be seen and treated.

There was a significant bustle around one of the stretchers; a crowd of nurses and also the doctor. Mary knew this was the soldier, the one named Matthew Crawley. She couldn't see anything past the crowd of heads, so with a more determined step, she continued down the great stairs.

Never before had this journey filled Mary with such trepidation, never before had the outcome of this walk left her life in such a perilous balance. She forced herself to focus on each step, to try to push out the fears that were continually plaguing her. She knew if she stopped for too long, if she let herself give in to the dread assailing her, she would lose control and break down completely.

There were no household staff around, no one who would know if the soldier was indeed her Matthew. No one she could catch the eye of and read the news in the possible horror on their face. Yet Mary was oddly comforted by this, the knowledge that she would not know through anyone else but herself. That she would not know until she saw the soldier's face. It gave her the much needed time now to compose herself, prepare for the worst. It was a strange sort of luxury.

Of course she'd been expecting this – ever since she'd last seen him at the train station nearly 2 years ago, she'd dreaded the day when it would come. A letter; a telegraph; a rumour that something had happened to Matthew. Every morning when the post had appeared; every time cousin Isobel came through the door; her heart had skipped a beat, wondering if today was the day when her life would change. For the last two years, she felt like she'd been living on a knife edge, that any moment she would fall and her life, her heart, would be cut in two.

For Mary, the most frustrating part was that she couldn't do anything. All she could do was wait; wait to hear whatever scrap of news she could about him, usually from the letters he wrote to her father and cousin Isobel. He never wrote to her of course, he had no reason to after the way things had ended between them. Even in the letters he sent to her father, she was barely mentioned – usually just grouped together with her sisters. She'd written to him a few times, full of politeness and civility, teasing and laughter, like there used to be between them. No reply had ever been sent and that pained her more than she dared think about.

She knew it didn't do to dwell on the past, not when the stark reality of the present and its implications for her future lay so precariously in front of her. Yet now, when she may be about to see him again, scenes from their turbulent past together played through her mind. All those times when they laughed and joked together, when he flirted with her and watched her from across the room. The times when he had somehow managed to make her admit things she'd never dare tell anyone. Then there was the time he had kissed her, kissed her so passionately and proposed!

Oh, what a fool she'd been! Ever since he'd enlisted she'd blamed herself for her own stupidity and fear. Why had she waited so long to accept him? Why had she been so afraid to commit herself to him when she knew she loved him? Why couldn't she have mustered the courage to tell him about the ill-fated night she shared with Kamal Pamuk?

She shook her head hard as she reached the bottom of the stairs, forcing the painful memories away. It didn't do to question what had happened back then, it wouldn't do her or Matthew any good now. She had to stay in control, to be strong, no matter what the outcome. With more determined steps now, she walked towards the crowd of nurses, trying her best to keep her head held high and the tears at bay.

They all looked up and quietened when they heard her footsteps. They all knew who she was and what this soldier may mean to her. They didn't say a word as they parted before her, allowing Mary a clear view of the stretcher where he lay. Whoever this soldier was, he was in a poor state. Even from some distance away, Mary could see the blood soaked bandages and the body racked with fever.

The shock of seeing the body, even this far away, was enough to freeze Mary in her tracks. She struggled to compose herself, to force herself to continue forward, to find out if this soldier was indeed her beloved Matthew. She didn't know what she hoped for, what outcome would be best. If it was Matthew, then he was in a bad way, his life hanging in the balance. At least though she'd see him, look upon his face one last time. If it was not Matthew, Mary knew she'd still feel no relief, that the horror wasn't over and that Matthew was certainly far from safe. He may even be worse off, lying in a ditch somewhere in the battlefields of Normandy, far away from his home.

Quelling the sudden urge to retch, Mary drew every scrap of resolve she could muster, drew on all her years of experience at acting the strong and heartless ice queen. Never had she been so grateful of the strong will and self control she'd taught herself as she was at this moment.

With one final deep breath, she forced herself to walk forward, to pass the silent nurses with their worried, sympathetic looks. She _had_ to ignore their faces; she didn't dare read the hopelessness she knew she'd see in their eyes. She focused instead on the bed in front of her, using it like a beacon of light to keep her walking forward.

She reached the bed too soon, far too soon. She wasn't ready. She couldn't look. She didn't dare find out which side of the precipice she would fall. Yet she knew she had too, that she had no choice. With a final prayer, she forced herself to look down at the face of the soldier lying on the bloody sheets.

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 _I hope to add a lot more chapters to continue the story, focusing mainly on Mary and Matthew, but hopefully on some other characters too. I apologise in advance for my somewhat OTT and melodramatic narrative! :-)_


	2. Chapter 2

As soon as she saw his face, Mary knew that it was indeed her Matthew, her beloved Matthew. Even with his face covered in bruises and blood soaked bandages, she’d recognise his handsome features anywhere. She could tell immediately his injuries were bad, very bad. His face was a mass of cuts and bruises, his right arm twisted horribly and there was a deep gash on his left. The wound was red and raw, oozing blood and puss which were barely held in by the thick, rough stitches. His soldier’s uniform was muddy and ripped, revealing more cuts and bruises on his feverish skin. His right leg was the worst though. It was clearly broken, with the splintered bone jutting out of the bloody wound in a mass of white and red. It was enough to turn Mary’s stomach, yet it was not the worst sight. Mary was most frightened by the look in Matthew’s eyes. His piercing blue eyes, usually so full of life and laughter, were frantic, crazed, haunted by the deep fever which gripped his body and mind.

Mary looked into those feverish eyes for what felt like an eternity, desperately trying to come to terms with the harsh reality before her. Then, just for a moment, the space of a heartbeat, she thought she noticed a moment of recognition in them. It was as if for a brief instant, the fever that was racking his brain had subsided and he had _seen_ her. It lasted only a mere heartbeat, but it shattered Mary’s resolve completely.

“No…” She cried out and quickly held her hand to her mouth to stifle the words of grief that threatened to overcome her. The tears started stinging in her eyes and her heart was ripped in two, the pain searing through her veins like white hot silver. She didn’t want to accept it, didn’t want to acknowledge that her worst nightmare was now before her. Yet when she’d seen the real Matthew in those crazed eyes, the true horror of his condition had struck her to the core. She could no longer pretend, no longer hope that it wasn’t her beloved Matthew lying there, his body hideously distorted and his life hanging on so precariously to the present.

Mary staggered back, away from his broken body, away from the terrible reality of his injuries. She forgot to breathe, her heart stopped beating and the shock sent every brick in her carefully constructed emotional fortress crashing down. She couldn’t contain the agony and torment any more and she started to collapse. Her knees gave way and she would have struck the floor if, at that moment, her father hadn’t appeared behind her. He protectively put his arm on her back, holding her up, keeping her standing.

She looked up suddenly, dazed, blinking as the world came into focus again around her. She saw her sisters and mother approaching warily behind her father, their faces grave as the realisation slowly dawned on them, filling them all with unspeakable terror. They didn’t need to see Matthew’s face to know it was him, Mary’s reaction had said it all.

The nurses, who had been watching Mary silently, moved further out of the way to allow the family nearer. They stepped closer, their footsteps slow, measured, as they approached the stretcher where Matthew lay. Behind them, a group of servants had also gathered, drawn nearer by the morbid fascination of the tragedy unfolding before them.

“Oh my goodness,” Cora exclaimed as she caught sight of Matthew’s body, of the horrendous injuries that had befallen him. She started to sway, feeling her legs collapse under her as she began falling to the floor. Robert saw her reaction and strode away from his daughter towards Cora, catching her just in time and pulling her upward. He then wrapped his arms tightly around his wife and Cora buried her face in his chest, both of them drawing comfort and strength from each other.

In the same moment, Sybil let out a cry and fell on the floor beside Matthew. She wanted to grasp his hand, to give him comfort, but the unnaturally twisted arm told her at once it was broken. Instead she started to cry, the tears falling unashamedly down her face as Edith watched above her. She herself was stronger than Sybil and she thought back her own desire to cry as she tried to stand tall.

When Mary’s father had caught her as she’d nearly collapsed, she’d felt her own courage returning. It gave her the strength to stand, to hold back her own tears and cries of anguish. The sight of her family’s grief had also filled her with a strange sort of comfort, as if she could live out her own colossal despair through them; mix in her own held back tears in those her sister and mother shed. It helped ground her to reality and gave her the much needed strength to push down her own horror and fear, her own pain and anguish.

“Send for Mrs Crawley at once!” Lord Grantham commanded over his wife’s shoulder, catching site of Mr Carson, who was lingering behind with the other servants.

“Yes my Lord,” he answered quickly, bowing his head and hurrying off to complete his task, relieved to finally have a way to help.

“How bad is he?” Cora asked the doctor softly, as she pulled away from her husband and stepped towards her daughter Sybil. Gently, she bent down and drew Sybil slowly to her feet, before enclosing her protectively in her arms.

The doctor looked down at the soldier and sighed. He knew now that this injured soldier was indeed Matthew Crawley, Lord Grantham’s heir and the future custodian of this grand estate. He hated to lie, but he also hated to give such bad news to such distraught people. He wasn’t used to dealing with families, it was perhaps the only perk he knew of when it came to working with soldiers – he didn’t know the patient _or_ their families. Here he knew the latter and, after seeing their devastated reactions, he found it hard to think as professionally as he would otherwise.

“It’s not good I’m afraid m’Lord,” he finally answered, deciding to go with the direct, though terrible, truth. “The injuries shouldn’t be life threatening. The problem is the fever. He’s very weak and the fever has taken a strong hold.”

“Will he be alright?” Sybil suddenly asked, looking up from her mother’s embrace.

Doctor Morris sighed again. Yes, he definitely hated dealing with grief stricken families. Normally the family were only told the news after all was known, via a letter which he himself did not have to write. He wasn’t used to this and had to pick his words carefully. “If he can survive the fever, then I’m sure he will recover from his injuries.” When he saw this did nothing to calm the girl, he continued, “We’ll know by the morning, the fever should have broken by then.”

The girl still wasn’t comforted and she buried her head in her mother’s shoulder, hiding the tears that were still falling from her eyes.

The doctor turned again to Lord Grantham, “To be quite frank, m’Lord, he never should have been brought here. The journey no doubt brought on the fever and his wounds have been terribly ill treated.” He made an obvious show of looking at the soldier’s wounds, with the unprofessional stitches and the useless wooden splint that had been tied around the broken leg. Everyone’s eyes followed the doctors and the hideous injuries that Matthew had sustained once again turned their stomachs. It wasn’t the worse though, they all knew that now. If the doctor was more concerned about a fever than the horrific mass of twisted bone and mangled blood and tissue, it could mean only one thing, the fever was life threatening.

“Shall I send for Dr Clarkson?” Lord Grantham asked the doctor hesitantly, not wanting to cause offence.

Doctor Morris looked at the lord suddenly, his pride hurt at the somewhat impertinent question. Whilst he had grown to respect Dr Clarkson in the year he’d worked at the hospital, to suggest another doctor be called now seemed a slight on his reputation. Yet, one look at Lord Grantham showed him his fears were unfounded – his face was ghostly white and the doctor could see how hard he was trying to keep himself together for the sake of his family. He knew Dr Clarkson had been the family’s doctor for years and that his presence would give them comfort and heaven knows they needed as much as they could get right now!

“Yes, I think that might be an idea,” Dr Morris answered. Then, to help salve his pride, he continued, “Dr Clarkson can look after Mr Crawley and I can attend to these other soldiers.” He looked pointedly around at all the other soldiers who had been brought in. None of them were nearly half as badly off as this poor fellow, but they would all need his attention soon.

Lord Grantham nodded as he looked around for a household servant and was relieved to see Mrs Hughes. “Please send for Dr Clarkson.”

“Certainly m’Lord,” Mrs Hughes replied, nodding her head in acceptance of the command and looking exceedingly pale. She paused for a moment, as if trying to decide whether to say anything to the family, trying to find some words of comfort or sympathy. She thought better of it though and disappeared off to find someone to send the message to Dr Clarkson.

Cora had listened carefully to the doctors words and, as his eyes had roamed around the room, looking at the other soldiers, so had Cora’s. There were at least a dozen of them, scattered around the hall in makeshift stretchers, their plight all but forgotten in the chaos of the arrival of Downton’s heir. They didn’t look so badly off as Matthew though, Cora thought. He looked so pale, so ill, lying on the stretcher below her and she couldn’t bare the thought of him being around all these other injured soldieries. Just their cries of pain and pleadings for help were enough to drive Cora again to the depths of despair. Matthew himself was relatively quiet, with just the odd moan of pain as the fever continued to grip his body.

“He can’t stay here!” Cora suddenly said, indignantly. “We can’t leave the heir of Downton in the hall to… to…” She didn’t finish the sentence, she couldn’t, but they all knew what she’d been about to say.

“Would he be able to stay in one of our guest rooms?” Robert asked the doctor quietly.

The doctor was surprised for a moment. Never before had the great Crawley family allowed a soldier upstairs! Dr Morris was reminded again that this was no ordinary soldier and he thought for a moment about the question. In his medical opinion, he knew it would be better for the injured soldier to stay here, where he and the nurses could keep an eye on him. He was just about to say this, but he paused when he saw again how distressed the grand family were, how important this young soldier was to them all. With a sigh, he decided to put the family above the well being of the soldier, knowing they would find comfort in looking after him as best they could. Besides, it would mean the grand family, and the soldier who was causing such commotion in the hallway, would be out of the way.

“Yes,” the doctor finally concluded, “he would be much more comfortable in a proper bed. I or Dr Clarkson can treat him just as well up there.”

“Have a bed made up at once!” Cora demanded, releasing her grip on Sybil so she could find a servant to carry out her command.

Mrs Hughes, who had just reappeared, immediately took charge. “Yes m’Lady. May I suggest the Blue guest room?”

Cora nodded, not really caring what room they put poor Matthew in, more concerned with getting him away from this hall full of pain and suffering.

Mrs Hughes bowed her head and disappeared, calling after a few of the housemaids as she went.

With no other questions now posed to him, the doctor looked down and began examining the soldier’s wounds again. Everyone in the room was watching him and he’d never felt his work so on display before. It was making him nervous and preventing him from thinking straight. The sooner they moved this poor soldier, whose torment had become a spectacle for both the hospital staff and the servants, so much the better!

Mary had watched all this as if through a glass mirror. She felt separate somehow, distance, as if she had detached herself from reality, closed her mind and heart to the horrific truth. She’d listened carefully to the doctors words, had allowed her mind to comprehend them, digest them, before shutting them away inside herself. It was the only way she knew to cope, the only way she had kept her tears at bay, but she knew she was one thread away from a breakdown. Before she had seen Matthew, before she had heard the doctor’s stark and brutal diagnosis, she’d had hope. Back then, she’d thought nothing was worse than not knowing, but now she only wished she was still on the stairs, looking down on the havoc and not understanding quite how terrifying cruel the reality truly was.

She’d tried hard not to look at Matthew again, to not allow herself to see his grotesque injuries and his haunted eyes. Instead she’d focused on the doctor, listened carefully to his analysis and watched the drama unfold around her. Yet when the doctor began examining Matthew’s broken leg, and, with no other distractions offering themselves to her, she found herself watching in morbid fascination. Mary now couldn’t look away from the hideous whiteness of the splintered bone against the redness of blood and sinew.

The doctor’s face looked increasingly troubled as he tended to the wound and, after only a few moments, he declared, “I think we may have to amputate his leg.”

The shock that went around the room was enough to silence even the most talkative of the nurses. The words seem to echo around the great hall, falling on the already shattered hearts of the family and obliterating their control completely. Cora quickly grabbed hold of Sybil again, hoping to prevent both of them from collapsing under the weight of this new horror. Mary went white with shock and amazed even herself when she suddenly jumped around and turned on the doctor.

“You can’t do that!” She almost shouted, “You can’t amputate his leg!”

“Mary, it’s alright,” were her father’s kind and soft words, but they fell on deaf ears. Mary knew it wouldn’t be alright. If they amputated his leg, Matthew would never be able to walk properly again, he’d never be able to ride that deplorable bicycle of his! She’d always thought it was incredibly uncivilised, but now the idea that she’d never see him riding it again was making her desperate, pushing her yet again to the brink of destruction.  

“Please doctor, don’t,” Mary cried, just about resisting the urge to grab the doctor and start shaking him. She was getting hysterical, she knew that, knew that the emotions she’d been pushing back for so long were washing over into her sanity, easily shattering the flimsy walls she’d continually tried to rebuild tonight.

The doctor took a step back, not quite sure how to cope with this panic stricken lady in front of him. It was not something he’d ever experienced before. He tried his best to sound calm and authoritative, though he felt quite the opposite. “I’m afraid I have no choice, the wound will get infected and septicaemia or gangrene may set in.” The doctor paused for a moment and tried his best to look into the desperate eyes of the lady, hoping he could make her see reason. “If we don’t amputate his leg, he may die anyway from the injury and…” The doctor paused again, not sure how much information he dare divulge.

Mary had stopped listening though; there was no point in trying to get through to the doctor. He didn’t know Matthew; he wouldn’t understand how devastated Matthew would be when he knew. The fact that Matthew may not even make it through the night was now no longer a concern for Mary. He would survive and she’d make darn sure he did so fully intact!

“Please papa,” Mary begged, turning to her father who she hoped would understand her plight. “He wouldn’t be able to walk again, or ride his bicycle or…” Mary stopped talking then as the tears started to burst force over her. Her control had shattered completely and for a moment she let her father wrap his arms around her in comfort. He said gently, “I’m sorry, Mary, we don’t have a choice.”

This was not acceptable to Mary, she couldn’t let them do it, she had to stop them! As her anger and innate stubbornness kicked in, she pulled away from her father. She wanted to hit him, to hit the doctor, to scream to the roof tops and let out her frustration, her anguish, her pain. She wanted to damn all creation for what they had done to her poor Matthew. She knew she was one breath away from an absolute and total breakdown, one heartbeat away from letting the hysteria claim her completely. Here, in the great hall, with all the family watching, and the servants and hospital staff, Mary was about to slip into madness.  

That knowledge was the last straw for Mary. She wouldn’t do it, she wouldn’t break apart, not here, not with everyone watching. She wouldn’t give them the satisfaction, the spectacle, the gossip. She had to be stronger than this; she had to find her control, her reason, her sanity. Not just for her sake, but for her beloved Matthew’s. What good would it do for him if she fell to pieces now? It wouldn’t save him and that was far more important.

She struggled for a few moments, trying hard to push down all her tears, fears and frustrations. Building up the walls that had tumbled down, building them higher and higher and hiding all her emotions away behind them. She strengthened them with every ounce of her being, every piece of her heart and soul. She wouldn’t let them fall down again, she couldn’t – Matthew’s life was at stake!

With her renewed determination to stay calm, she found herself thinking of a solution, a way to save poor Matthew. “Perhaps we can wait and ask Cousin Isobel,” Mary suggested, pleading with her father, hoping he could see that she was much calmer now, see the wisdom and sense in her words.

“Mary, I don’t think…” Robert started, but the look of hopelessness that crushed Mary’s face caused him to stop. He looked around at his family. What a mess they all looked, so pale and scared, each trying hard to hold back the tears. His wife and youngest daughter were clinging to each other and his two eldest were fighting hard just to stay standing. He looked at Mary then; saw how close she was to losing control and how important this was to her. It was important to him too, he didn’t want to see Matthew crippled for life. Yet he also knew that Matthew’s life was more important and, unlike his daughter, he understood that the chance might just not be worth taking. Finally he looked at the doctor, deciding to leave the decision to him. 

As he caught the lord’s eye, the doctor groaned inwardly. He’d had enough of these tough decisions tonight, he’d had enough of having to weigh up his professional judgement against the overbearing grief of the family that surrounded him. Yet he knew his own agitation and annoyance were nothing to what this family were feeling and soon what the poor soldier’s mother would feel. For at the mention of Mrs Crawley’s name, the doctor was reminded of just who this injured soldier was – none other than Isobel Crawley’s son!

Despite their somewhat frosty beginnings, Dr Morris had come to admire Mrs Crawley greatly and had learned to value her opinion highly. She didn’t deserve this, not after how hard she’d worked at the hospital, often working all through the night when things were busy. He knew how much Isobel loved her son, how proud she was of him. She deserved some say in what became of his fate, especially when the depth of her own medical knowledge and expertise often greatly surprised the doctor.

He made a small show of looking put out, not wanting them to notice that he was secretly relieved that the decision would not now be his.

“It is in Mr Crawley’s best interest to amputate the leg now, as I see no way it can be saved,” the doctor began. After the shocked gasps and Mary’s protests had quietened, he continued, “But as long as Mrs Crawley arrives soon, I see no harm in allowing her to reach the same conclusion as myself.”

“Thank you, thank you!” Mary gushed at the doctor, unable to stop herself as the relief she felt overcame her. She knew it was only a small step, the first battle she’d won in the war to save Matthew, but it filled her with hope, with a renewed sense of purpose, for she knew that Cousin Isobel would not let Matthew’s leg be amputated.  

“The room is ready m’Lady,” Mrs Hughes said, coming back into the hall and speaking to Lady Grantham. Her sudden entrance after such a tense drama startled them all.

“Thank you, Mrs Hughes,” Cora nodded at the housekeeper, gently releasing Sybil from her arms and stepping forward towards Matthew. “May we take him upstairs now?”

The doctor hoped he hadn’t looked too relieved at this news. He tried to keep his voice measured, professional as he said, “Yes, let’s get him somewhere more comfortable.”

The sudden commotion and movement was the tonic they all needed to distract them for their fears. Lord Grantham quickly took charge of the situation and called over a few servants who were still standing around gawping. They were only females, as all the young men had gone off to war themselves. Still, they would have to do.

Lord Grantham and the servants then led the way, carrying between them the stretcher containing Matthew’s wrecked and fever ridden body. The doctor issued a few orders to the nurses to follow and bring equipment as they continued up the grand staircase.

They were followed silently and ominously by the family, each one now lost in their own thoughts and fears, their own horror and grief. The doctor’s words still haunted them, reminding them that it wasn’t his injuries that could be the death of him, but this fever. The fever that still tore through Matthew’s body; driving his mind to insanity and keeping his very existence hanging so precariously in the balance.


	3. Chapter 3

There was a very sombre atmosphere in the servants hall that night. The news about the new soldier had spread like wild fire around the servants and the hospital staff. Normally hospital gossip had all the tongues wagging, but this time it was very different. This time most of the servants knew the poor soldier and those that did not quickly learnt of his importance for the great estate. Not only were the servants worried for the man’s life and the family’s grief, but also for their own futures. They all knew what turmoil the future of Downton Abbey would be thrown into if anything happened to its heir.

So it was with silent prayers and fears that the servants began their tasks once more, Mr Carson ushering them away from the great hall and the spectacle that had unfolded there. Whilst they completed their chores with a greater sense of urgency than they had ever felt before, there was a foreboding silence filling them all. It ran through their minds and hearts with ice cold dread and it cut down their usual light hearted chatter and jokes. They bustled about, full of energy and direction, but their hearts were sad and their thoughts were melancholy as they remembered the scene that had unfolded and the vastness of its implications for this great estate.

They’d all gathered and watched as the Crawley family had seen the wounded soldier. There was a sort of macabre fascination with watching such a disturbing scene, watching such a grand family react to the horror and panic that had befallen them. It was a scene never witnessed before and it reminded all the servants that the grand family, who inhabited life in their own upstairs world, were just as human as they were; their own lives just as fragile.

Tragedy was not new to the hospital though. Since the nurses, the wounded soldiers and the subsequent calamity had arrived, the house had seen its fair share of misfortune. Whilst most soldiers who came here were already well on their way to recovery, there were always the few who didn’t manage to pull through, who’s injuries proved too severe or became besieged with infection and disease. Never before had the tragedy been so close to home though and never before had a soldier’s life held the great estate itself in such a precarious balance.

It was these thoughts that plagued them as they set to work, carrying out the new responsibilities they’d adopted since the hospital had invaded. Just like the great house, the hospital had its own systems, its own rules and its own way of doing things. The servants had no choice but to quickly learn and adjust to them. Not only did they have to cope with the loss of so many of the male servants to the war, but the extra, demanding work of the hospital seemed never ending. Whilst for the servants their work for the household always came first, whenever they had any spare time, indeed often when they did not, they were expected to work in the hospital. A few of the younger girls had taken well to nursing and the scullery maids were pushed ever harder in their duties. Water, food and bandages were often carted upstairs to the stately rooms and laundry and cleaning were constantly waiting to be completed. It didn’t help that the servants quarters themselves were now very crowded, the rooms full of extra beds to accommodate the new nurses and other hospital workers. Tensions were often high amongst the hospital staff and the servants and both tried to avoid each other as best they could.

The two cooks, Mrs Patmore and Mrs Bird, liked to think they felt the most strain from the hospital invasion. They had to work together to provide food and drink for not only the grand family, but all the servants, soldiers and hospital workers. It seemed a never ending and thankless job and the poor scullery maids usually felt the brunt of the cooks’ frustrations and stress.

Anna knew how hard the poor scullery maids worked compared to her and whenever she could find the time she would help out her friend Daisy. They had grown closer since Gwen left and even more so now that Daisy had been moved into Anna’s room. With the new arrival of soldiers, especially one so grievously ill, the work would be considerable for poor Daisy and Anna headed towards the servants hall to find out what she could do to help.

It was with a heavy heart that Anna walked back to the servants hall though. She’d only seen Mr Crawley’s injuries from a distance, but even she could tell they were severe. None of the servants had ever seen the family so distressed before, so grief stricken, so distraught. Anna knew it affected Lady Mary most keenly though, knew that the lady cared deeply for the heir to Downton. She had been so close to a breakdown, so close to shattering under the weight of her anguish that Anna was terrified for her. She was always so strong, so confident and Anna knew that the real Lady Mary often hid behind her cold, unfeeling façade. Inside was a warm, beating, passionate heart and Anna could see how much it had broken tonight. Anna’s own heart bled for Lady Mary’s plight and that of the entire family. Heaven knows how the family would cope if Mr Crawley did not pull through and Anna knew that Lady Mary would never fully recover.

So lost in her own melancholy thoughts was Anna, that she did not notice Daisy at first. In fact, Anna nearly stumbled into her as she entered the servants hall. Daisy didn’t seem to notice her either; she was standing there, her eyes distance as her mind drifted elsewhere. They were all used to Daisy’s daydreams, but this time her face was saddened, distressed, anxious.

“What is it Daisy?” Anna asked the scullery maid gently.

“I… I was just thinkin’ about Mr Crawley,” Daisy answered, “lyin’ up there so hurt an’ dyin’ an’ all.” Daisy paused for a moment, still looking into the distance. “It makes me think of poor William, out on the battlefields, lyin’ somewhere hurt.”

Anna saw how upset Daisy was and tenderly put her arm around her. She wanted to give the poor girl a hug, but she didn’t want to draw the other servants’ attention.

“You know William’s alright though, don’t you Daisy?” Anna asked quietly. “He writes to you often and he always tells you how well he’s doing.”

Anna had hoped her question would help comfort Daisy, but it seemed to have quite the opposite effect. Daisy started to cry and Anna gave her a hug after all.

After a few sobs, Daisy managed to stutter, “I… I’ve not heard from him. He usually writes a least once a week and it’s been nearly 2!” She then quickly buried her head in Anna’s shoulder and Anna gently stroked her back, soothing her.

The news was troubling to Anna, she knew how sweet on Daisy William was, everyone did. They all remembered how he’d worked up the courage before he left for France and had nervously asked Daisy if he could write to her. Daisy had never seemed so happy as she urged him quite strongly that he could and how much she would look forward to every one. Since then, he’d written regularly and Daisy was always so giddy when she received them. If William had not written recently, it could not be good news.

Trying to make her voice sound much more positive than she felt, Anna said “I’m sure his letter is just delayed Daisy. It is a long way to France from here you know.” Anna pulled away from Daisy and looked into her eyes, trying to smile, “Or else he’s just too busy being a hero and he’s gotten a bit behind.”

Daisy smiled at those words as Anna hoped she would. Daisy was often talking about William’s heroic actions, retelling all the brave battle stories from his letters. For Daisy, William might well be the only one fighting in the Great War.

“Now dry your eyes Daisy, before Mrs Patmore sees you,” Anna urged her kindly, smiling cheerfully now.

“You’re right, I’m sure his letter is just late,” Daisy said, brightening up as she quickly used her pinafore to wipe her tears.

It was well timed too, for at that moment Mrs Patmore appeared in the doorway, wearing her usual expression of irritation mixed with stress and the faint hint of panic. When she saw Daisy’s teary eyes her expression softened, though her words were still hard. “There you are Daisy! What the blazers are you doing standing around feeling sorry for yourself! Do you want the soldiers to die of starvation?”

“No Mrs Patmore,” Daisy answered, cowering back ever so slightly behind the great and somewhat fierce bulk of Mrs Patmore.

“Then stop pretending you’re auditioning for the stage and get back to work!” Mrs Patmore barked as she then turned around and headed back towards the kitchen.

“Yes Mrs Patmore,” Daisy said as she followed, glancing at Anna as she went. Anna did her best to give her an encouraging smile and was pleased to see Daisy smile back.

Anna watched Daisy as she left the room and happened to catch the eye of Mr Bates, who had just come in. Anna tried to give him a friendly smile, but he quickly turned away. Anna’s smile slipped and her melancholy thoughts washed back into her mind. He was heading towards the end of the servants hall and Anna knew she had to get his attention quick.

“Is there any news Mr Bates?” Anna asked, trying hard not to show how his slight had affected her.  

“I’m afraid not Anna,” Mr Bates answered, turning towards her, his face sombre and grave. “He has been brought upstairs and we are now waiting for his mother and Dr Clarkson to arrive.” With that Mr Bates turned away and walked down the hall, before Anna had chance to think of a reply.

Anna watched him walk away, her heart growing heavier with his every step. Ever since she’d visited his mother in London, nearly two years ago now, Mr Bates had been distance towards her. Civil, courteous, sometimes friendly, but always distance, always so sad and downhearted. Anna knew Mr Bates didn’t blame her for visiting his mother and finding out the truth, yet, no matter how hard Anna tried, Mr Bates would not open up to her any more.

She knew Mr Bates was trying to protect her, trying to encourage her to move on as he was not a free man, but she couldn’t. As she told him once, there was no better man and she loved him dearly. The noble way he tried to protect her, tried to shield her feelings, only made her heart love him more. Whenever he avoided her, or quickly cut short their conversations, Anna felt the deep pain in her heart. She tried not to show it though, as she didn’t want Mr Bates to know how much more his noble actions hurt her.

It did not help that they didn’t see much of each other any more. His Lordship was often called to London for business with the war office and, as valet, Mr Bates would always travel with him. Anna knew how much Mr Bates enjoyed these visits and suspected that his Lordship took Mr Bates along for more than just company. His Lordship seemed to sense that Mr Bates needed this occupation, some way of being connected to the war, some way of helping. For Anna knew Mr Bates was greatly troubled about his limp and the limitations it caused him. She knew his fierce moral code and noble, almost devout sense of duty made him want to fight for his country again. Yet he couldn’t, the limp that had scarred him from the previous war was preventing him from fighting in this one. He’d found his own way of coping with his silent frustrations though. When he wasn’t busy, or down in London with his Lordship, he could often be found in the house’s hospital. His limp meant he could not help with the manual work, and he had no training in nursing, but he did have experience of war. He seemed to find comfort and contentment in sitting with the wounded soldiers; reading to them, sharing stories of war and providing them with hope and peace. Anna knew that Mr Bates often derived as much comfort from this small work as the wounded soldiers.

Anna did not like it when Mr Bates visited London though. It filled her heart with such worry. She knew he was safe enough in London, but the thought that his Lordship’s business might one day take himself and Mr Bates across the Channel filled her with dread. Now that the horror of the war had been brought so suddenly to Downton tonight, Anna found her worries increase ten fold. Try as she might, she couldn’t help but imagine Mr Bates lying there in Mr Crawley’s place, wounded and dying, broken and bleeding…

“My goodness Anna,” Mrs Hughes suddenly exclaimed, coming into the servants hall from upstairs and finding Anna standing there, lost in thought. “It’s not like you to stand around dawdling when there’s work to be done.”

Anna suddenly jumped around to face Mrs Hughes. She’d been so consumed by her own worries she hadn’t noticed the housekeepers arrival.

“I’m sorry Mrs Hughes,” she apologised quickly, standing up straight and pushing her melancholy thoughts away.

“Heavens child!” Mrs Hughes continued, “I know we are all upset about Mr Crawley, but you cannot do much to help if you just stand around gawping like a scullery maid. Please go up to the hall and see if they need any help. If not, then go upstairs and see what you can do to help there.”

“Yes Mrs Hughes,” Anna answered, surprised at the sharp tone in Mrs Hughes’ voice. Anna knew that the housekeeper was constantly under a great deal of pressure, but Mrs Hughes usually seemed so controlled and contained, so calm and collected. She’d adapted quickly to the changes the house had undergone in the last two years and her stern, yet friendly ability to maintain order and command made Anna admire her greatly. Tonight though, like all the servants, Mrs Hughes was feeling the great strain of the situation, worrying not only about the heir, but the effects it would have on the whole family and the great estate that was their work and their home.

Feeling guilty for her own dark, selfish thoughts and misery, she quickly hurried towards the great hall, resisting the urge to take one last glance at Mr Bates as she left.

As Anna entered the great hall, the first thing she noticed was the silence that had recently surrounded the room. It was thick and tense and she knew immediately something had happened. Suddenly fearing the worst she rushed forwards towards the gathering of servants and nurses. They were all looking towards the main entrance and Anna could see a lonely figure standing there. The lady looked troubled, worried, though her stature was strong and controlled. The lady was looking around her, trying to find someone she knew, someone she trusted. She caught Anna’s eye and stepped forward, her footsteps slow, steady and determined, her head held high.

“Anna?” The lady asked, her voice restrained, tight, her countenance strong yet appearing so very fragile, so ready to break. “Please take me to see my son.”


	4. Chapter 4

Isobel Crawley did not know how she managed to walk up the stairs that night. Each step she took filled her with more and more trepidation and terror, more and more desperation and dread. The kind housemaid Anna offered Isobel her arm, but she refused. Not for fear of appearing weak, but from her own need to stay strong; to stay together so she could help her son.

The driver who had brought her, Wilson she thought his name was, had refused to tell her the extent of Matthew’s injuries. She didn’t need to be told though; the urgency in the driver’s voice and the anxious fear in his eyes told her everything she needed to know. If his own reactions weren’t enough, the silent and anxious reception of the people in the house would have been. She could plainly read the horror and the fear in their faces and it fed her own panic, making it hard for her to continue, to remain strong. She felt their eyes watching her as she walked up those stairs, but she did her best to ignore them, instead she focused on preparing herself for what she was about to see.

She’d been dreading this day for nearly two years now, ever since her stupid, but brave son had enlisted in the war. It’ll all be over by Christmas, he’d told her as he left that day, two years ago. If only he had been right, if only he had been back by her side whilst they celebrated Christmas that year and the next. She hadn’t seen him since that day, the day he’d left. He’d been too busy nobly killing other men to have time to visit his mother. Whilst she was immensely proud of her son, how could she not be, she was also angry at him. It came from her grief and fear of the fate that had befallen him and it fed her strength, helping her stay in control. If she could be angry at him, angry at his own stupidity for nearly getting himself killed, she wouldn’t fall apart.

She’d never expected to hear the worst like this though, never expected his tragic fate to play out here, in her world. She’d always imagined the bad news would come by telegraph, a letter, a newspaper story. Never had she expected to be interrupted one evening with tragic news that her son was gravely ill and waiting at Downton Abbey.

The drive over here had been the worst. It wasn’t a long journey and she knew Wilson was driving as fast as he could. But with every second that ticked by, Matthew could be one second closer to meeting his maker and she couldn’t let that happen, not without seeing him first. No, he was not going to die, Isobel told herself firmly. She wouldn’t, _couldn’t_ let him leave her behind in this world. She would do everything in her power as both a nurse and mother to save him and every second it took to reach him was a second too long.

As she’d reached the great house though, her resolve had weakened. She’d been in this house nearly every day for the last few years, helping out in the hospital and before then keeping company with the Crawleys. She’d never imagined one day she would walk up to it with such dread and fear in her heart, with such a sorrowful and painful sight ahead of her. It wasn’t right, this. A mother shouldn’t have to watch her son die, shouldn’t have to face the world without him. It wasn’t the natural way of things. But the war had changed everything, had turned all natural laws on their head and there was nothing anyone could do about it.

With working in the hospital, she was constantly reminded of the horrors of war and with each new soldier she treated, she thought of Matthew, thought of him suffering these same injuries or worse. Most people thought she was brave, strong and committed for working so hard in the hospital, but her motives were selfish, weak. She did it as a way of escaping, keeping herself occupied, a way of filling her mind with other things and pushing all her own doubts and worries aside. She hadn’t expected that one day she would see her own son lying so close to death in this hospital and suddenly the familiarity of it all, the recognition of so many faces, made it so much harder. It meant she had to fight twice as hard to maintain her control, her composure, to make herself think like the nurse she was, not the mother who was about to see her son on the brink of death.

They had reached the top of the stairs now and started down the long corridor. Isobel paused at the top, steadied her nerves and tried to push down her fears. Anna looked at her with concern, so Isobel tried her best to give the girl a reassuring smile. She doubted it worked, but Anna smiled back too and continued on, down the corridor. Isobel was glad that Anna didn’t try to speak to her, didn’t offer her words of comfort or encouragement. Isobel didn’t know how she’d tolerate them, how she would reply, how she would cope.

She could see down the corridor which room Matthew was in, she could see the nurses hurrying in and out, one quickly coming down the corridor towards them. The nurse was looking down at the floor as she came, but when she noticed the two people she suddenly stopped and looked up, then she froze in her place. The nurse let out a startled gasp when she recognised Mrs Crawley and her expression was enough to bring Isobel to a stand still. The young nurse’s face and blood soaked apron told her everything she needed to know. With more a sense of urgency now than fear, she picked up her pace and walked quicker towards the room the nurse had just exited.

As they reached the room where Matthew lay, Isobel could see the Crawleys round the doorway, a couple of nurses and Dr Morris. They were surrounding the bed where Matthew must be, so Isobel at first could not see him. They sensed her approach and they all turned around and looked at her. Isobel had never felt so much on display before and it only added to her own worry. They all looked so sombre, so sad and without hope. Isobel felt herself falter, felt her confidence slip. She looked at the Crawley family then, saw their grief and knew how much they shared her own fear and terror. Robert’s face was ashen white and Cora looked like she was about to faint any moment. Sybil’s tears streaked her face and Edith looked scared and anxious. It was Mary who drew Isobel’s attention the most though. Whilst her countenance was strong, restrained, proud, her eyes were full of doubt, fear, terror and Isobel could see the battle that was going on inside the young lady’s mind. She could see in Mary’s eyes the struggle she was constantly fighting to stay in control, to stay together and to not fall apart. She looked the complete picture of how Isobel herself felt and at that moment Isobel realised how much this beautiful young women loved her son. Isobel did her best to give Mary a reassuring smile as she caught her eye, but she doubt it would do any good.

The people in the room slowly parted for her as she felt herself walk forward, not really aware of what she was doing, her head ringing and her vision slightly blurring. When she reached the bed though, all the preparation in the world would not have helped, all her many years of nursing experience did nothing to soften the blow. His injuries were horrific, she couldn’t have imagined a worse sight and she felt her strength and resolved waiver. Robert moved behind her, ready to catch her if she collapsed, but Isobel Crawley was stronger than that. She’d told herself the whole journey here that she mustn’t fall apart, that she must stay strong and do everything in her power to save Matthew. With a fierce determination she never knew she possessed, she pushed her maternal instincts down, deep down, back in her heart and shut them away. She let her role as a nurse completely take over, letting it distract her from her fear and terror and she refused herself the distraction of remembering that this poor, dying soldier, was her one and only child. She stepped nearer towards her son’s broken body and with only the eye of a nurse looking at her latest job, she immediately took in his injuries, his fever and what needed to be done.

“He needs to be changed and cleaned up at once!” She commanded the nurses, directing all the authority and determination she could muster. She looked at the family then, who were silently watching the scene unfold. It was a big room Matthew had been brought too, but there was still not enough room in it for everyone. They would need space to work and she didn’t think it would be very helpful for them to watch the nurses treat Matthew. “Please wait outside,” she asked them, trying to keep her voice gentle, trying to reign in her frustrations.

“I can’t leave him!” Mary suddenly shrieked, the desperation clear in her voice.

“I want to try and help!” Sybil cried out, at the same time as her sister.

Isobel looked between the two girls and tried to think of a way of dissuading them. “Please girls,” she eventually said, “don’t you think Matthew deserves a little privacy whilst we clean him up.” She tried to keep her voice light, hoping to alleviate some of the tension in the room, “You can come back in when he’s all ready.”

Cora seemed to get the message and stepped in front of Mary and Sybil. “Come along now,” she said gently, urging them away. “Let the nurses do their job. I’m sure they will let us see him again soon.” She decided not to add how important it was and that Matthew’s life was at stake here. She didn’t want to give any more voice to the fears that plagued them all. For now that Cousin Isobel was here and taking charge, they all felt slightly better, slightly relieved. They knew that if there was one person on this earth who would not rest until she had saved the poor soldier, it was his mother.

Mary didn’t want to leave Matthew. Whilst she was with him she felt safer, comforted; she could see him, see him breathing, see him hanging on to this world, albeit by a thread. She was too afraid that something might happen in her absence, that she wouldn’t be there when the final moment came. If it came. Yet she was too weak now to put up much of a fight and she let her mother gently usher her out of the room. She took one last look at Matthew before one of the nurses slammed the door in her face.

As soon as the family had left the room, the nurses immediately got to work. They knew better than to argue with Mrs Crawley on the best of days and tonight it didn’t even bear contemplating. They quickly changed Matthew out of his muddy soldier’s uniform and begin cleaning his wounds. There were many of them, cuts, bruises, grazes, everywhere. They left the main three injuries alone though – they didn’t dare go anywhere near the leg and knew only the doctors would be able to sort out his two injured arms.

Dr Morris watched all this from the sidelines. He hadn’t dared say a word since Mrs Crawley had come in, he didn’t know what to say. He hadn’t really known what to say to the family either and once the poor soldier had been brought upstairs, Dr Morris had felt quite at a loss. All the pressure and the attention had made it hard for him to think straight and he didn’t dare begin any of the more complicated procedures in front of the family, especially the ladies. He had hoped they would leave once they were upstairs, but they hadn’t and Dr Morris didn’t know how to ask them too. He knew they derived some sort of strange comfort from being near to the soldier, of seeing him still alive and knowing what was happening to him. It did make it darn difficult for the doctor to do his job properly though!

He’d been incredibly relieved when Mrs Crawley had arrived and instantly taken charge, though he hoped no one had noticed. However, after a few minutes of standing around doing nothing, he was getting rather uncomfortable. He was just about to speak up for himself, when the door opened suddenly and Dr Clarkson barged in, followed almost immediately by the family again.

“Good God!” Dr Clarkson took one look at Matthew’s battered body and immediately stopped in his tracks. “What the devil was he brought here for in this state! Those injuries need seeing to at once!”

Dr Morris felt his nose even more out of joint now. Not only was his authority being pushed aside by Mrs Crawley, but now by this other doctor!

“Yes well,” Dr Morris began, trying to save face, “I was just about to look at those wounds myself when you came in.” Realising he had been too harsh to the other doctor though, he said more gently, “Dr Clarkson, if I may have a word.” He nodded down at the poor soldier’s leg and began walking out of the room. Dr Clarkson followed and the family and nurses all watched as the two doctors conversed quietly.

Mary watched from the door and felt her panic start to rise again. She’d seen the pointed way the doctor had looked at Matthew’s leg and knew what they were discussing. Quickly seizing her opportunity, Mary rushed over to Mrs Crawley and almost shouted at her in panic. “Please Cousin Isobel, they want to amputate his leg!”

Isobel was quite taken aback by Mary’s reaction. She’d never seen Mary so distressed before, so panicked and afraid. Isobel was also stunned at Mary’s words. “Amputate his leg?” Isobel repeated, her voice sounding quiet, surprised. She felt her face grow pale and for a moment she felt quite out of herself, hardly daring to comprehend the words that Mary had spoken.

Dr Morris had overheard Lady Mary’s cry and looked around him with a sigh. He’d been afraid to bring this topic up, but he would stand by his promise of allowing the poor soldiers mother to decide. Speaking directly to Mrs Crawley, but nodding at Dr Clarkson he began, “In my professional opinion the leg cannot be saved and it would be far better for Mr Crawley if we amputated it now.”

Isobel nodded slowly as she took in the doctor’s words. She’d been avoiding looking at that wound before, the sight of it so ghastly, but swallowing the queasiness she felt, she turned her attention to the wound. Anyone could tell the bone was broken, the question is, would it heal and was it infected. Isobel wasn’t so sure. There was only a mild sign of infection, it had yet to spread, but the bone and ligaments were so badly torn that she didn’t know if it would ever heal.

She stood up slowly and looked at the two doctors. They were watching her closely, as were the Crawleys and in particular Mary. She sighed as she realised they were leaving the appalling decision to her and she tried to think what best to do.

Mary had seen the look of hopelessness in Cousin Isobel’s eyes and immediately took up her campaign. She hadn’t expected to need to fight with Matthew’s mother, but she would if she had to.

“Please, please, save his leg!” She cried, trying to swallow the hysteria that was rising up in her again. It would do no good if she fell apart now. “You can’t let Matthew lose his leg, he’d never be able to walk again, or ride his bicycle or…” She let her voice trail off then as she fought hard to push the true horror of it all away. “Please!” Her voice almost a whimper now, pleading with the only women who could help her in her plight.

Isobel sighed, she did not want to make this decision, yet as she watched Dr Clarkson examine the wound and look at her with sorrow in his eyes, she knew what she should do.

Dr Morris saw Mrs Crawley coming to the right decision and tried his best to bring her fully round. “Mrs Crawley, I’m sorry to say it, but… if we amputate the leg now, whilst the fever is still so strong, it will cause less of a shock to his system. Amputations can cause death if they are not done right and he has a much better chance of pulling through now than if we wait. In my opinion…”

Mrs Crawley looked at him then, with such sorrow and grief in her eyes, such defeat and frailty that he couldn’t finish. In the past year he’d known her, she was always so strong, so focused and determined and now she just looked lost and helpless. Dr Morris didn’t say any more then, feeling suddenly so very guilty for trying to push her to the right decision.

Everyone in the room was holding their breath, watching Mrs Crawley, waiting for her answer. Isobel didn’t know what to say, what to think, what to do. All her nursing instincts were telling her to side with the doctors, to listen to their advice which she knew made sense. Even if infection didn’t set in, the leg may never heal and may cause her son to be more disabled later. She also understood the doctor’s need to do it quickly, whilst the fever would mask the shock to the system and before infection could spread.

Yet the small part of her heart that refused to be locked away was growing in strength. It was appealing to all her maternal instincts, all her own fears and doubts for her son’s future. She knew how much the loss of the leg would affect his life, how it would forever cause him grief and misery, how it would prevent him from fully achieving the independence she knew he held in such high esteem.

With a heartfelt sigh that seemed to shroud the world in sadness, Isobel struggled to come to her decision. She looked between the two doctors, who were gently urging her with their eyes to follow their advice. She looked at the family, at Lord Grantham and his wife and their two youngest daughters. Then she looked at Mary, who was pleading with her with such an intensity that Isobel did not know what to do. Finally she looked at her son, at the injuries he had sustained and the fever that was still racking his body.

Heaven help her and her dear son if she made the wrong decision.


	5. Chapter 5

_Slight warning – if you don’t like shows with an A &E/Casualty theme you may want to just skip/skim the middle part of the chapter. _

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“No,” Isobel said eventually, her voice quiet, soft, only just audible in the deathly silence of the room.

The two doctors looked at her in surprise, hardly believing the decision she had reached.

Isobel saw their shocked looks and did her best to ignore them. She knew they were right, that removing Matthew’s leg now would be the best thing for him. But she wouldn’t do it; she couldn’t let them do this to her son, taking away all his independence and any hope of a normal future for him. Even if he did pull through the fever, his life would never be the same, he would forever be disabled and dependent on others. Isobel knew just how much anger and frustration that would cause her proud, stubborn son. There was still a chance; still a hope, a prayer and she could not deprive her son of that.

“No.” She said again, her voice louder now, more distinct and determined as she accepted her own decision. “We will take the risk and try to save his leg.”

When Dr Morris opened his mouth to start speaking, Isobel raised her hand to silence him. “He is my son and I will not let you do this to him.” Then, realising the real reason for Dr Morris’ anxiety, she continued, looking him directly in the eye, “I will take full responsibility for my decision.”

Yes, Isobel thought silently, it was her responsibility now, the life of her own son was in her hands. She wasn’t just a nurse making a professional decision, the outcome of this would be with her forever; forever haunting or comforting her. She just prayed that she had made the right choice and had not just sentenced her own son to death. 

It took Mary a few moments to fully comprehend Cousin Isobel’s words. She’d watched her face, seen the way the doctors had silently pushed her and Mary had started preparing herself for the worst. A thousand arguments had raced through her mind, a thousands ways she could still stop them when Cousin Isobel relented. She wondered how far she could go in her campaign and even considered standing in front of Matthew, screaming the house down and preventing anyone from getting near him.

So as reassuring as Cousin Isobel’s words were, Mary did not know quite how to react at first; they knocked her completely off her guard. She stood in a silent stupor for several moments as the outcome of Cousin Isobel’s decision percolated through her mind, through her heart and soul. Then the truth hit her and relief rushed over her, running through her veins like sunshine. It gave her a renewed sense of hope, of peace and comfort, lifting away her despair and anguish.

The relief was so overwhelming for Mary that she nearly collapsed for the second time that night. Somehow she managed to keep her feet and just about resisted the urge to rush over to Cousin Isobel and hug her. Instead, with as much dignity as she could gather, she caught her eye and nodded her deep, heartfelt thanks. It would be alright now, it had to be. She had saved Matthew’s leg and now she would save his life!

“Now then doctors,” Isobel’s voice was lighter now, less strained, more practical and determined as the nurse in her took charge once more over her emotions. She had made her decision, there was no use agonising over it and the implications any more. There were other, much more important things to think about now. “Are you going to help me save my son?”

The two doctors didn’t need telling twice and immediately came towards Matthew and awaited Isobel’s next command. It was easier that way, easier to let her take control and heaven knows how much she needed that right now.

“First we need to get this broken leg sorted,” Isobel said, her voice practical and very matter of fact, though the idea of what needed to be done filled her with horror. She could do it though, she had to; her son’s life was at stake.

“Right then, I want only nurses and the doctors in here, the rest,” Isobel looked round at the family and the few other servants who had somehow gathered in the doorway to gawp at the spectacle. “I want outside, now.”

Only Mary and Sybil dared argue with this, protesting at once. Isobel decided to let them stay. Sybil was already quite used to nursing now, following her training in the hospital and she could be useful. As for Mary, Isobel looked at the poor girl again and decided to let her have her wish. She looked a strange mix of panic and relief, determination and confusion and Isobel knew she would find more comfort if she stayed.

“Fine!” Isobel answered, showing more irritation than she actually felt. “The rest of you – _out_!”

After the onlookers had left the room, Isobel shut the door, but she didn’t fail to notice Robert, Cora and Edith remaining outside the room. Their concern for her son touched her greatly and gave her a renewed sense of determination for what must now be done.

“Right then, I need to force this bone back into place.” She moved towards the bottom of the bed and picked up Matthew’s leg. Everyone could see the way Matthew flinched at the unexpected movement, even the fever unable to mask the sudden pain. “We can’t risk anaesthetics with the fever riding so high, so we will have to hold him down.”

Isobel watched the nurses’ reactions to this news, saw the newer ones pale considerably and Mary and Sybil looked incredibly anxious. As for herself, she pushed her maternal instincts deep, deep down and made herself think like a nurse treating a normal soldier, one she did not know.

With a silent indication to the people in the room to move round the bed, Isobel said, “Hold him down good and proper, I think this might hurt.” Then, before she lost the nerve herself, she pushed hard on her son’s leg, forcing the splintered bone back into place.

The cry of pain and anguish that pierced the silence of the room was enough to make even the coldest heart break. It seemed to rise from the very depths of hell, from the very centre of pain and misery, anguish and torment. It echoed round the room, resonating with an intensity that only seemed to gain strength and magnitude. It split through the souls of everyone in the house and seemed to make even the very foundations of the great house itself shake.

Matthew’s whole body protested the pain and tried to pull away. Mary and the others had to push with all their might to hold him down and Isobel continued pushing on the leg, making sure the bone was securely in place. Then, before she lost her courage completely and before she could let her son’s cries of pain drive her to the edge, she walked round to his right arm and pulled that strongly and firmly back in to place. Then, with her son’s cries of pain still ringing in her ears, still reverberating around the room, Isobel sat down on the bed. She suddenly felt exhausted, drained, unable to carry on. No mother should have to hear their child scream like that, no mother should ever have to be the cause of it.

Mary herself didn’t know how she’d managed to get through those frightful few moments. She couldn’t even begin to imagine how Cousin Isobel could have done that, managed such an act. The sound of Matthew’s horrific pain was like nothing she’d ever heard and it stopped Mary’s own heart dead. It seemed to pierce right through to her very soul, the centre of her being and shatter it absolutely; filling her with such pain and grief that she didn’t know how she managed to remain standing, how she managed to remain silent.

They’d heard soldiers cry out in pain before; sometimes it was so loud it echoed round the house and filled everyone’s hearts with dread. It had never been anyone they knew though, never someone so close to home. The familiarity of the screams of anguish only made them so much more terrifying and Mary knew it would haunt her nightmares forever.

Mercifully, Matthew’s cries subsided rather quickly as the pain of the movement was relinquished and the fever again took control of his mind. The small group stepped away from the bed and looked at Mrs Crawley. She was taking a few deep breathes, trying to calm herself and fight back the panic. After a few moments, she seemed to recover enough, to find her nursing instinct and her professionalism again. She stood up, composed herself, brushed herself down of imaginary dust and held her head up high.

“Now then, we need to get those wounds seen too – Sybil, would you mind helping clean Matthew’s arm so Dr Clarkson can stitch it. Nurse Susan, would you mind sorting out Matthew’s broken arm.” She issued a few more commands to the other nurses and then turned towards Matthew’s broken leg. She knew she should have the responsibility of dealing with that now, that she could only trust herself with it. The wound looked less threatening, less frightening now that the bone was back in its rightful place. It was still horrific though and she set to quickly, making sure the wound was properly washed with the antiseptic and that all traces of the infection were removed. It was far from healed though and Isobel knew she would have to keep a very close eye on it for many days to come. It still may never heal, but she wouldn’t let herself worry about that now. One thing at a time.

“Well, I see you have everything well under control now, Mrs Crawley.” Dr Morris answered, after watching Mrs Crawley again taking charge. “I think it is well past time I went and saw the other soldiers who have been brought in.” When no one voiced their objections, he made a hasty retreat, followed by the remainder of the nurses. He was used to hospital procedures like that, used to the cries of pain and anguish of the soldiers, but this time it all felt so very different, so much more real. He honestly did not know how Mrs Crawley had found the strength to do what she did, but his respect and admiration for her grew immensely. She was one strong lady and the poor soldier was darn lucky to have a mother like her. With more than a few sighs of relief, he nodded to the family who were still lingering outside as he walked out and then hurried along back to his hospital, where he was in charge and where he felt very much more in his depth.

After the doctor had left, the people in the room got on with their jobs in silence. Mary herself felt an overwhelming need to be kept busy, to be distracted from the horror of those last few minutes. “What can I do to help?” She asked quietly.

The question threw Isobel for a moment. She knew she shouldn’t be surprised at Mary’s offer of help, her need for a distraction, but Isobel knew Mary didn’t have any nursing experience. She didn’t dare chance the safety of her son and it took her a few moments to think of a task for poor Mary.

 “The fever is the main problem, we need to try to keep his temperature down,” Isobel said eventually. “Perhaps you could help with that?”

Mary nodded her consent and Isobel ushered over one of the nurses.

“Here, m’Lady,” the nurse said gently, giving Mary a damp, cool cloth. “Just keep bathing his forehead.” Mary looked at the cloth for a moment, then down at Matthew’s fever ravaged body. She seemed lost for a moment, feeling the despair that had been threatening to consume her start to wash over her again. Whilst the terrifying horror of Matthew’s injuries seemed over now, Mary was yet again reminded of how much her beloved Matthew’s life was still at risk.

The nurse seemed to sense her growing distress and quickly found a chair nearby. She placed it by Matthew’s bed and then urged the young lady to sit down. As soon as Mary was seated, she felt like a weight had been lifted from her shoulders. She hadn’t realised how much effort it had taken just to try to stay standing. With a new found courage, Mary forced herself to look again at Matthew’s battered face and with a shaking hand she began gently wiping his sweat ridden forehead. His eyes were still completely glazed over with fever and she couldn’t see a trace of Matthew in them. It was as if the Matthew she knew and loved had somehow left his own body, had somehow left this world.

They weren’t sure how much time passed then, time itself seemed a strange thing, an abstract concept. The minutes blurring together as they were each so consumed with their work and the never ending task of keeping their own fears and terrors at bay.

“I think we’ve done all we can now, Mrs Crawley,” Dr Clarkson said eventually, breaking the silence with his tired, exhausted voice. He warily got to his feet and looked down at the poor soldier who was still lying there.

“Yes, you are right,” Mrs Crawley answered, with a heartfelt sigh. Matthew’s wounds had all been seen to now and he looked much the better for it. His broken arm was held in a firm plaster and his broken leg, which had to heal before it too could be plastered, was firmly bandaged and placed in a tight splint. The deep gash on his left arm was firmly and professionally stitched and all the cuts and abrasions his body had sustained were all clean and carefully bandaged where necessary now.

“Thank you, Dr Clarkson, and everyone, for your help.” Her own voice was tired now too, anxious, worried. Now that all the imminent tasks were complete, she felt herself grow incredibly weak, tired and all the thoughts she’d pushed away for so long were starting to ebb back into her mind.

With a heavy sigh, Dr Clarkson stepped forwards and opened the door. He knew the rest of the family were waiting outside and would want to know the latest news. Lady Grantham and Lady Edith were sat looking anxious and pale on a couple of chairs the servants must have found and Lord Grantham was pacing backwards and forwards. As soon as they noticed the door open and the doctor, they immediately all stood to attention, their faces clearly showing their apprehension as they waited anxiously for the news.

“We’ve done all we can now,” Dr Clarkson told them as they walked warily into the room.

“Will Matthew be alright now?” Cora asked, her face ghostly pale. She’d heard Matthew’s earlier howls of pain and her own maternal heart had broken. She didn’t know how Isobel had managed that, to hear those cries of pain and not collapse under the agony and strain of it all. She didn’t ask Isobel if she was alright though, there was little point. She could see immediately the strain the mother was under and how hard she was trying to cope, how hard she was trying to remain in control.

“We cannot know for sure yet,” Dr Clarkson answered, stepping back into the room and answering the question on Mrs Crawley’s behalf. She’d been through so much tonight, he knew it would be too cruel to ask her to formulate the words, to speak out loud the knowledge that her son was still far from safe. “We’ve done the best to heal his wounds, now we just need to wait and see if the fever will break.”

“And if it doesn’t?” Edith asked quietly, her face downcast as she almost seemed to hide behind her father’s larger frame.

No one wanted to answer that question, though they all knew the answer. His wounds for now may have been dealt with, but Matthew had a long way to go to recover.

“Perhaps it would be best if you retired for tonight,” Dr Clarkson suggested gently to the family. “There’s nothing more we can do now but wait.”

Robert nodded at the doctors words. He glanced at his wife then, his daughters. They were all so pale, so weak, so grief stricken. He knew none of them would be getting much sleep tonight, but if they at least tried to rest, he knew it would all help repair the damage that had been done to their emotions, their souls and their hearts this night.

“Come along now,” he told his wife and daughters gently, making his voice soft yet authoritative. He expected a few protests, but none came, they were all too weak to argue now. Only Mary stood up then and had the courage to disagree.

“I can’t leave him papa,” Mary protested, her voice weak, quiet, unable to find the strong determination within her to push her cause. Robert nodded though, despite her exhaustion and her obvious need for rest, he knew better than to argue with her at this time.

With a nod at Isobel, which was all he could really manage at the moment, not sure what to say or what to do, he walked out of the room and was followed by his wife and his younger daughters. Dr Clarkson and the nurses also followed, picking up their equipment as they went. For all, it was with worried, heavy hearts that they walked away and eventually went to bed and with troubled, terrifying thoughts that they finally went to sleep.

After the room had cleared, there was only Mary and Isobel who remained, the silence stretching between them feeling disturbingly empty now, after all the earlier commotion. Whilst Matthew looked so much better with his injuries seen too, they both knew the real battle had yet to be won. The fever was still gripping his body, plaguing it and it seemed to have increased in intensity as they had worked on his wounds. The sweat was dripping from him now as his body had started to thrash and squirm, trying to fight the fever that had invaded.

Mary quickly continued her task of mopping his brow, feeling the heat coming from his face as the fever rose his temperature ever higher. They both knew that the fever was at its worst now, that it was make or break time for the man they both held so dear. Turning towards Cousin Isobel, who was seated opposite her across the bed, she asked, “What do we do now?”

Isobel paused at Mary’s words, looking at her son and then at the beautiful young lady who seemed so lost and afraid. With a heavy heart and feeling the sheer exhaustion of what she’d been put through tonight, she said simply, “All we can do now, my dear, is wait.”

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 _I hope this chapter wasn’t a bit too much. I didn’t want to just wash over and shy away from some of the horrors that would have happened in the war hospitals and make out that everything was just magically alright. In fact, Matthew’s injuries are quite mild compared to what some soldiers went through in that awful war._

 

 


	6. Chapter 6

As the early morning sun rose over Downton Abbey, a chink of light sneaked through the thick curtains and fell on Lady Mary’s tranquil face. The sudden, harsh light was enough to draw her out of her shallow, troubled sleep and she slowly opened her eyes. For a moment, with a mind still foggy from slumber, she wondered where she was. Suddenly though, the events of last night hurtled back into her thoughts and she woke up fully alert, the memory of Matthew’s screams of anguish ripping through her heart and mind.

It had been a long, long night. The longest and most troubled night she had ever been through and it was hard to believe it was now over. After everyone else had left, and just Mary and Cousin Isobel had remained, she had been fearful that she would now eventually break down. She’d worried that the huge great wreaking sobs, which had been threatening to engulf her all night, would finally be released, but they never came. Instead, she’d felt numb, cold, distance, completely drained of all emotion and feeling. Tears did come though, silent, soft tears that slowly ran down her cheeks and fell onto Matthew’s wounded face as she’d leant over his fever ridden body.

She’d wanted to hold him, cradle him, but she knew she couldn’t, not with his injuries. Instead she did all she could do and continued the duty she’d been assigned – of helping to keep his temperature down. Mary had been glad of this small task of gently wiping his brow. Not only had it kept her busy, gave her a purpose, but it also gave her a way to be nearer to Matthew. She’d been so close to him and it felt right, natural. If it was going to be the last time she ever saw him, she’d wanted to make it count, to be near to him and do whatever she could to help.

As Mary had watched him lying there, his very life so uncertain, so greatly in danger, it had fully dawned on her just how much she truly loved him, how deeply he had pierced her heart. She hadn’t realised before just how acutely she’d missed him since he’d left, nearly two years ago now. She’d missed his smile, the teasing twinkle in his eye, his witty retort to whatever playful insult she threw at him. She’d already known she loved him of course, that she thought of him constantly, but this night had brought it all into such a sharp focus. It had forced her to finally acknowledge and accept just how deep and powerful her love for Matthew was and Mary knew then her world would be a much darker and terrifyingly empty place without him.

After a while, Mary had found herself whispering his name, quietly praying and pleading with him to come back to her. She’d looked intensely into his haunted eyes, searching them, trying to find a small thread of the real Matthew in them, the small thread that tied him to this world. She didn’t think he’d hear her, didn’t know he would feel enough for her to even care, but she had to try. She had to try to give him the will to live, to survive, the will to fight the fever that was tormenting and threatening to destroy him.

“Matthew,” she’d whispered, her voice anxious and pleading, “please come back, please don’t leave me.”

At the sound of Mary’s pleading, Cousin Isobel, who had been watching Mary quietly, had gently reached across the bed and took Mary’s hand in hers. Mary had looked at her suddenly, surprised, but she hadn’t said anything. Instead the two women had looked at each other, a deep and powerful understanding between them, a shared grief and despair binding them closer together. Mary had realised then that she’d earned this great woman’s respect and favour and Mary was quite surprised how much that had meant to her.

At some point in the night, Mary’s sheer emotional exhaustion and weariness had gotten the better of her and pushed her into a superficial and distressed slumber. Now that Mary was awake though, and memories of last night thrust into her consciousness, she drew up the last of her courage and looked anxiously at Matthew.

The sunlight that was filtering through the gap in the curtains made his face glisten, made him appear almost an apparition, a dream. He looked so still, so silent, so peaceful lying on the bed, the contrast with last night so stark that for a moment Mary thought the worst. She sat up quickly and leant over him, looking at his tranquil face and his closed eyes. Fearing that he had been taken from her, Mary felt her anguish and grief wash over her, felt the great wreaking sobs that had failed to come last night start to choke her. But then something happened, something that felt as close to a miracle as Mary had ever known. Matthew’s eyes suddenly trembled, ever so briefly at first, but then they started to flicker open and just for a moment, Mary saw Matthew’s intense blue eyes, saw life in them, saw _Matthew_ in them. She also saw his lips move, quiver ever so slightly, but Mary could have sworn she read her own name on them. It was only for the space of a heartbeat and then his eyes closed again and he was still.

“Matthew!” Mary cried out, leaning over him, resisting the urge to shake him. No, it couldn’t be, he couldn’t have just slipped away like that! “Matthew!” She cried again, hoping she could bring him back.

Cousin Isobel woke up at the sound of Mary’s cry. Seeing her distress, she jumped up quickly and leant over Matthew as Mary moved out of her way.

“Is he… is he…?” She couldn’t finish the sentence, too afraid to speak the words, as if speaking them would give them life, give them foundation.

It felt like an age then before Cousin Isobel answered her. Mary watched silently, her fear keeping her perfectly still, stopping her heart and preventing her from breathing. Cousin Isobel leant over Matthew and gently placed her hand over his forehead, then gently over his neck to check for his pulse. Slowly, she then turned to Mary and for a moment Mary thought she saw defeat and anguish in her face. For a moment, Mary felt her entire universe come crashing down around her, felt herself falling down a great precipice of anguish and despair, until she heard Cousin Isobel’s words.

“He’s… he’s alive,” Cousin Isobel said slowly, her voice quiet as if she didn’t quite believe it herself.

Mary wasn’t sure she’d heard properly at first, she didn’t dare accept it, didn’t dare hope. She caught Cousin Isobel’s eye and saw the same disbelief, the same fear and doubt, but then the words seemed to sink in for both of them. The disbelief slowly changed to relief, the fear to felicity and the doubt to delight. The overwhelming joy that rushed through them both was like rain in the desert. It filled their hearts and souls with a singing, resonating happiness and ran through their veins like warm, molten gold.

Mary herself didn’t quite know what to think, what to feel, so she let the relief, the warmth, the joy rush through her. She let it take control of her, pushing away all the pain, the anguish and anxieties she’d been feeling, blowing them away like cobwebs in the warm breeze of her happiness. She felt her legs give way beneath her, but she didn’t care anymore, nothing else mattered then, nothing was important. Matthew was alive and the world had momentarily become wondrous, magical, perfect. She let the chair catch her as she fell, her euphoria still bursting through her as she looked again at Matthew’s face. His lips were moving, quivering, as if he was trying to speak her name. His beautiful blue eyes were trembling, flickering and occasionally they would open, a sea of brilliant blue in the warm radiance of the sunlight that lit his face like an angel. Indeed, he did seem like an angel then, sent back down to Earth to fill it with tenderness and happiness and compassion.

“He’s still very weak,” Cousin Isobel said, cutting through Mary’s sudden reverie of angels and miracles. Her voice was serious, somewhat grave, but Mary could still hear the joy and gladness behind it. “He’ll need lots of rest to help him recover and…” Cousin Isobel made a point of looking at Matthew’s injuries, “To help his body repair itself.”

Mary nodded at her words, knowing she was trying to kindly warn Mary that Matthew still had a long road to recovery ahead of him. Mary didn’t let the words damper her euphoria though and, with a sudden need to share her happiness, she stood up and headed towards the door, “I’d better go tell papa.”

Cousin Isobel nodded at Mary as she quickly left the room and walked down the corridor, her pace fast, energetic and anyone who didn’t know any better may even say there was a definite bounce and joy in her step. Mary didn’t have to walk far, for she saw her father coming towards her down the corridor. As they saw each other, both stopped and observed one another. No words were needed as Mary watched her father’s face change, as he saw the joy and delight in her own. His expression, which had been filled with anxiety and fear, now reflected Mary’s own gladness and relief.

“Oh Mary!” He said, stepping towards her and embracing her. Mary let her father hold her, sharing in his own happiness and joy for just a moment, before she pulled away, feeling somewhat self-conscious in her showing of emotion. Her father didn’t notice though and with his face beaming he announced, “I had better pass on the wonderful news to your mother.”

Mary nodded and watched him walk away for a few moments, before turning back and quickly hurrying to Matthew’s room again. She didn’t want to be too long away from him, didn’t want to miss any moment she could spend by his side.

Cousin Isobel must have opened the curtains whilst she was gone, for now the bright May sunshine poured into the room, bouncing off the pale blue walls and filling it with radiant serenity and hope. Its bright cheerfulness was a welcome relief after the horror of last night and it bathed their hearts and lives with all the warmth of a thousands summers. Cousin Isobel was gently holding Matthew’s hand and she looked up as Mary came in. She smiled at her and Mary felt herself smile back automatically as she went and sat back by Matthew.

Mary gently took hold of Matthew’s other hand and felt the warmth of his fingertips send tremors of peace and calm through her. She watched his face again, she couldn’t help herself. It felt so right, so natural to be sat here looking at him, watching for signs of movement in the face of her angel. It helped remind her that he was here, with her, alive and that her fears from last night were nothing now but a distant nightmare. Without thinking, Mary reached out and gently traced her fingertips along his face, tenderly caressing the cuts and grazes that marred his otherwise perfect features. Suddenly realising that Cousin Isobel was watching her, Mary quickly pulled her hand away, feeling embarrassed. Cousin Isobel simply gave her a kind, somewhat knowing smile, but this just embarrassed Mary further. She quickly averted her face from Matthew’s and dropped his hand that she was holding.

Mary felt her normal reserve come back in full force then, felt her walls, her barriers, quickly build themselves back up, shutting in her emotions and leaving her feeling awkward, self-conscious. During the night, when Matthew’s life had been hanging on so precariously, Mary’s reserve had fallen and her walls had been continually crashing down. Just for a while, the idea of showing emotion, showing her feelings, hadn’t filled her with any mortification. Now though, when she knew Matthew was out of danger, it all mattered so very much to her again. Even though her and cousin Isobel had shared a deep understanding last night, a strong sense of awareness of how much Matthew meant to them both, Mary suddenly found herself exceedingly embarrassed to be caught showing affection towards her son.

Mary found herself struggling for something to say then, something light hearted and cheerful, to put down her own silly actions and try to make it appear that they were meaningless. She was just about to say something completely inane and frivolous, when the door opened and spared her any further embarrassment.

Her father quickly came in, followed by her mother, her two sisters and the two doctors. The large room suddenly felt overcrowded, claustrophobic with all these people and Mary found herself guiltily standing up, as if she’d been caught red handed doing something she shouldn’t. No one paid any attention to Mary as they entered though; all eyes were drawn to the bed and the injured soldier who was lying there. Despite the good news they’d all heard, seeing him so still, so silent, filled all their hearts with new worries.

Dr Morris, in his usual way of wanting to appear important, pushed passed the crowd and headed straight towards Matthew. He made a big show of examining him, muttering under his breath before standing up and announcing to them all what they already had grasped. “Through the diligent care and attention of myself and my staff, Mr Crawley has started to recover from his life threatening fever.”

Even though they already knew this was the case, the doctor’s confirmation caused the anxious faces of those in the room to relax and relief and joy to flood in.

“It will take time for him to recover completely though and,” Dr Morris made a point of pausing then and looking at Matthew’s bandaged leg, “we will still have to see if his leg can be saved.”

“What will happen if it can’t?” Sybil asked nervously, her face growing pale with this new, less favourable news.

Dr Morris started to answer, but Dr Clarkson suddenly began talking over him, butting in and sending him a reproachful look for the insensitive way he had been speaking. “We will simply have to keep an eye on it.”

The family fell silent again, their happiness slightly dampened now by the doctor’s words. Sensing this, Dr Clarkson continued, “I’m sure it will be alright though.” Dr Clarkson hoped his voice didn’t betray his own fears, as he knew now was not the time to concern the family with such worries. Let them enjoy their relief for as long as they could. He gave them his best reassuring smile that he’d learnt through all his years of being a country doctor. He wasn’t quite sure how much it helped though and decided to go with distraction instead.

“Now that Mr Crawley is safe from the fever, he needs all the rest he can get!” Dr Clarkson said, as he gently started to usher them out of the room. “The more _undisturbed_ sleep he can get, the quicker he will recover.” Dr Clarkson decided not to add that whilst Mr Crawley remained asleep, he would not feel the immense pain of his injuries.

The family soon got the message and somewhat reluctantly started to leave the room, but not before they each gave cousin Isobel a reassuring smile and a nod of respect, friendship and shared relief.

None of them commented on Mary staying, which half pleased her and half bothered her. She did not want to plead her case for staying to her family, but their unspoken acceptance that she could worried her. She was starting to feel the repercussions for her behaviour last night, her lack of control and the deep grief and anguish she had shown them all. Whilst she knew it was stupid, pathetic, it bothered her greatly that they had seen her weakness, her emotions and above all, her regard for Matthew. Although Mary appreciated most people had guessed she cared considerably for the heir to Downton, she liked to think it would always remain unspoken, ignored and forgotten between them, saving Mary the awkward, almost selfish embarrassment of acknowledging her feelings.

She looked worriedly after her family and knew that to save face, she should leave with them. She couldn’t do that though, couldn’t bear to be away from Matthew now that he had been brought back to her. She was afraid to leave him, afraid that something might happen in her absence. Above all though, she just knew she would miss him too much if she went. Avoiding Cousin Isobel’s eye, she sat down again beside Matthew’s bedside and made herself resist the urge to hold his hand again, that was one intimacy she could not afford right now.

As Mary watched him though, she couldn’t help but feel a sense of melancholy fall over her. Her joy and happiness at his recovery was still singing in her soul, swelling her heart with the warmth of sunshine, but part of her thoughts were starting to turn somewhat downhearted, depressed. Not only was she growing increasingly self-conscious of the affection and regard she had shown towards Matthew, but she also couldn’t help but think towards the future and their troubled past together.

She knew she didn’t deserve him, she never had; not after all she’d put him through, after how much she’d unintentionally hurt him. Yet again her regrets for how she had acted pained her, putting a cap on her otherwise joyous happiness that her beloved Matthew was safe from harm. She found herself starting to worry, to fear his reaction when he saw her, when he became fully awake and aware of what had happened. Would he be angry with her, bitter about the way she had treated him before he’d left? Perhaps he didn’t even think of her that way anymore, perhaps the war or her own selfish actions had erased any feelings he might have once felt for her. Even if he was able to forgive her, even if he still cared, could anything ever happen between them? He still did not know about Kemal Pamuk and Mary didn’t think she’d ever have the courage to tell him, to see the disappointment in his eyes as he realised she was not the women he thought she was.

Even now, Mary knew her thoughts and worries were selfish, that she ought to be completely contented that Matthew was alive and recovering. She chastised herself for thinking of herself, for thinking of how it would affect her, but she couldn’t help it. Now that her beloved Matthew had been brought back to her, the fool’s hope she’d been unable to completely suppress ever since they’d parted had sprung back to life. Try as she might, Mary couldn’t help but hope that her and Matthew could still have a future together, that she may one day be worthy enough for him, be able to win his love again and admit that she loved him.

Mary sighed as she let herself pick up and hold Matthew’s hand, deciding to allow herself that one small intimacy, before he would wake up fully and things between them became as cold and distance as they were when they had parted.


	7. Chapter 7

Considering the uncanny way the Dowager Countess always seemed to know about important news over at the great house, no one was too surprised when she walked into the entrance of Downton Abbey early that morning. After barging through the front door, too impatient to wait for a footman, Violet marched through the hall and into the saloon. Her sudden appearance and somewhat stern and intimidating countenance struck fear into the hearts of some of the newer nurses. All the servants and hospital staff in the area quickly disappeared off if they could, or tried to make themselves look overwhelmingly busy.

Violet looked around her with a fierce efficiency and was satisfied to see that everyone appeared hard at work and the chaos of the hospital was confined out of sight at present. Too often did she find she had to step around beds full of crying soldiers and blood spattered nurses. It was a far cry from the house she had efficiently run for over thirty years and Violet did not like to be reminded of how much standards had slipped.

As she’d entered the saloon, Mr Carson happened to pass carrying a tray of food and he immediately stopped as he saw her. His back straightened and he nodded his head, “Your Ladyship.”

“Where are they Carson?” Violet asked, her voice sounding much more strained and less regal than usual, though her appearance gave nothing away of the anxiety she felt.

“They are upstairs in the dining room, my Lady,” Mr Carson answered bowing his head, “I will take you to them.”

Violet waved her arms at him to hurry up and Mr Carson quickly headed towards the main stairs, taking care not to spill the kedgeree in his haste. He still wasn’t used to carrying all this food, but ever since the footman and the other male servants had left to fight he’d had no choice. He remembered when he used to think there was nothing worse than a maid serving at a meal, but now it was so commonplace he hardly blinked an eyelid anymore. The war certainly had changed everything at the Abbey and even his ever present need to abide by the rules of etiquette had to be pushed aside in the wake of the inevitable change. It wasn’t easy though and he was certainly less able to adapt than some of the other, younger servants, even Mrs Hughes had taken it all in her stride. He had a good feeling that the Dowager Countess felt the same way about all these changes though and, his butler pride not wanting to cause her Ladyship any delay, he quickly headed up the stairs.

Violet followed quickly behind Carson, her walking stick barely having chance to touch each step as she anxiously hurried up the stairs. She’d heard the news that Matthew had been brought in last night and was hanging about at death’s door, but she had yet to discover his fate this morning. Carson and a few other servants she’d seen would probably know, but if it was bad news, she wanted it to come from her family, _not_ from a servant. She been trying hard not to think of the worst and what affect it would have on Downton the whole way over here and now she was simply in a hurry to find out the news, for good or ill.

“The Dowager Countess, my Lord,” Carson said, announcing her arrival as they entered the door of the makeshift dining room. Even under the circumstances, Violet still felt rather put out when she saw her family squashed around such a small table eating. Still, she had better things to worry about and comment on then, so as soon as she entered, and she’d indicated for Robert to sit down again after he’d stood up on her arrival, she asked, “How is he?”

“He has made it though the fever, but he is still very weak,” Cora answered, putting her cup of tea down on the table. She looked at Violet then, curious to see her reaction to the news. She was not surprised that her mother in law had seemed so anxious though, after all, if anyone knew how important the life of Downton’s heir was, it was the Dowager Countess. Heaven knows what she may have thought of the next in line to the earldom.

“Thank heavens!” Violet exclaimed, feeling an almost startling sense of relief and unaware that she had pleased Cora in her obvious joy at the news.

Violet was glad of her walking stick then, to support her as she took in this most wonderful turn of events. As much as she’d been against the upstart heir when he and his busybody mother had first arrived, just like the rest of the family she had grown to accept them both as part of their extended family. She was deeply concerned when she heard the news of poor Matthew and felt the devastating loss it would inflict upon the whole family. She was also incredibly relieved that they would not have to search again for the next heir. Matthew had proven his worth for taking on the responsibilities of Downton, they all silently agreed with that. They really would be lucky if the next, even more distance relative of Robert’s proved anywhere near as capable. So for her own sake, her family’s sake and for the sake of Downton Abbey, she was incredibly pleased that Matthew’s life, for now, was safe.

“He will fully recover though, won’t he?” Sybil asked, slightly nervously. Like the rest of the family, they still remembered Dr Clarkson’s worried face earlier that morning.

“He will be fine,” Robert stated, though his voice sounded more convinced than his expression. He tried again, “Dr Morris said that the worst was the fever and thankfully Matthew is now recovering from that.”

“And his leg?” Violet asked. She’d heard all the gossip regarding Matthew’s leg of course, how Mary had almost been in hysterics at Dr Morris, trying to convince him to save it and how Mrs Crawley had later gone against the doctors’ wishes and taken care of Matthew’s leg herself.

“We don’t know yet, I’m afraid. Dr Clarkson said they would have to keep an eye on it,” Robert answered.

“Is it true though?” Violet asked, wanting confirmation of the rumours she’d heard. “Did Mrs Crawley really go against the doctors’ orders and fix Matthew’s leg herself.”

“I think so yes,” Robert answered.

“Good heavens! Why?” Violet exclaimed. “Why on earth did she do that?”

“Because the doctors were not willing to take the risk and I was not going to condemn my son to being a cripple,” Mrs Crawley answered, suddenly entering the dining room unannounced and surprising them all.

Violet was the most shocked and any lesser female might have blushed at the obvious insult they had given to Mrs Crawley. Violet turned around and a cutting comeback was on the edge of her tongue, but then she saw the poor woman and kept her remark to herself. She’d never seen Mrs Crawley looking so tired before, so dishevelled, and Violet was reminded of just what this poor mother had gone through last night. Not for the first time, Violet admired this strong woman and all that she seemed capable of, not that she’d ever admit it, of course.

Mrs Crawley was standing defiantly, looking Violet directly in the eye and appeared more than prepared for whatever comment Violet would make. When Violet held her tongue though, Mrs Crawley relaxed and remembered the reason for her disturbance.

“I’m sorry for bothering you, Robert, but would it be alright if I took some breakfast for myself and Mary?”

“Yes of course,” Robert answered, “Carson, take some food for Isobel and Mary.”

“Yes, my Lord,” Mr Carson answered, as he began filling a tray with some dishes and tea things.

“Has there been any change?” Cora asked.

“I’m afraid not, the fever and his injuries have left him very weak. It will be a few days before he’s fully conscious,” Isobel answered, avoiding Violet’s eye, not wanting to risk any comments from her on Isobel’s efficiency to make the diagnosis.

“How is Mary?” Violet asked, the only comment she was able to make under the circumstances. She directed her question at the whole family, but she was not at all surprised that Mrs Crawley deigned to answer it.

“She’s pleased at the news, of course, but she needs rest herself. I did try to convince her to eat some breakfast, but she insists she is not hungry. Perhaps when she is presented with some food, she will change her mind.”

“Poor Mary, I think she is quite against the thought of leaving Matthew’s side,” Robert said, with a faint hint of a chuckle in his tone. “Perhaps when he wakes, Matthew may find he has a very attentive nurse!”

The family smiled at this, even Violet, though no one who watched her expression would have noticed. In any other circumstances, Violet would be quite put out had her eldest granddaughter taken up the position of a nurse! She had already been through the battle of trying to convince Sybil to not train as one, but Sybil had been quite adamant. As Sybil was the youngest though, Violet had relented with the hope that it would not seem quite as unseemly for a still quite _young_ lady to take up the occupation. Besides, no one outside the family and the servants need know about Sybil and her nursing. For Mary though, her nursing Matthew was quite an exception. He was, after all, the heir to Downton Abbey and a member of their family in most respects. Like both Robert and Cora, Violet was suddenly hopeful that the damage that had been done to Mary’s marriage prospects nearly two years ago, when she had delayed in accepting Matthew, may well take a turn for the better now.

“Well,” Violet said dryly, “I hope Mary knows to make the most of the opportunity.”

 “I’m sure Mary is perfectly capable of making the most of _any_ opportunity,” Edith remarked, her hostile voice earning her a few looks from her family.

“What about you, Isobel?” Cora asked gently, ignoring her daughter’s comments. She was growing increasingly worried about the poor Isobel’s appearance and obvious exhaustion. They all knew she was used to working long hours in the hospital, but this was quite a different situation entirely. “Perhaps some food and rest may be of help to you?”

“Thank you, Cora, but if you don’t mind, I’d prefer to stay with Matthew for now,” Isobel answered.

Cora nodded and then tried again, “We’ve had the room next to Matthew’s made up for you, so later, if you are in need of some rest, please do make use of it.”

“Thank you, Cora, that is very kind of you,” Isobel answered, though she wasn’t sure yet whether she would take the family up on this offer. When Matthew had first left for war, only a few weeks after war had even been declared, Cora had kindly invited Isobel to stay. “It won’t be for long, the war will be over and Matthew will be back soon,” Cora had said, trying to convince her to stay. Isobel knew Cora had not liked the thought of her being in the cottage all by herself, left alone with nothing but her worries for her son. Isobel had politely but adamantly refused, explaining that she did not want to trouble the family. The main truth was that Isobel knew she’d never feel properly at home or settled at the grand house. Despite the family’s kindness and cordiality towards her now, she always felt rather out of her depth socially and she knew she’d never quite fit in with these grand people. She would never be able to forget that the only reason herself and her son were even here was due to an unbreakable law. Matthew had more of an excuse, of course, one day he would become one of these grand people himself, but Isobel knew even Matthew would never fully be comfortable in their world. She’d much appreciated the many dinner invitations though and had spent nearly every night in the great house. It was comforting to be with people she could talk to socially and to have somewhere to go to. It was also a great relief when she could go home and get away from all the social pressures of being at the Abbey, even if it was only to an empty house full of worries for her son.

When the hospital had arrived and Isobel had at last found a proper purpose for herself, a way of helping in the war, Cora had again pressed Isobel to stay. “You’re here so much helping at the hospital anyway, why not stay here a while, just until Matthew returns?” Again Isobel had thanked her for the kindness, but politely refused. If anything now, staying in the house was even more uncomfortable and stifling than it was before. How could she sleep in one of the grand rooms whilst there were poor soldiers so injured lying below on makeshift beds? At least when she retired for the night back to Crawley House, she could shut away all the dark thoughts of injured soldiers and the chilling reminders that her son had still been out there, in danger. Besides, Crawley House had become her home now and she had been quite relieved when Matthew had decided to not move back to Manchester when war had been declared. A relief which had only been dampened when he’d announced later his intentions to enlist right away. It had then only been a fortnight before he’d been called down to London and that had been the last she had seen of him, until last night. Now that Matthew was here at Downton Abbey, and she was sure it would be for a long time, maybe she should finally accept Cora’s kind invitation.

She noticed then that Mr Carson had piled a tray full of food and was waiting most patiently for her by the door. She nodded at the family and said again her thanks, before walking out of the dining room, followed by Mr Carson and the tray of food he was holding quite precariously. Isobel was almost tempted to offer help, but she thought that would upset Mr Carson more than it would help, so she kept quiet as she hurried back to Matthew’s room. She was anxious to see if there had been any change, though she knew it was rather an optimistic hope.

Violet waited long enough for Mrs Crawley to be out of earshot before she continued her earlier conversation. “I still do not understand why on earth the doctors would listen to Mrs Crawley and let her take over!”

“But Granny,” Sybil answered, “Cousin Isobel has been working in the hospital over a year now; she’s more than capable of mending a few broken bones. Besides, I think they knew better than to argue with her!”

“Well, I hope if I ever break a bone I do not have to suffer under Mrs Crawley’s care!” Violet huffed, her usual sour expression now firmly back in place, after the earlier anxiety had been quelled.

The rest of the family exchanged amused looks, but no one said anything. Their more jovial spirits and even the Dowager Countess’ remarks were proof that things were certainly looking up for the great family at Downton Abbey.


	8. Chapter 8

Whilst things were looking up for those who lived in the grand world upstairs, a few servants downstairs were feeling quite the opposite. The whole great estate had breathed a sigh of relief at the news of Mr Crawley’s recovery and some of the servants were especially cheerful that their futures, for now, were secure. For some though, the relief was short lived as they were growing increasingly anxious about one of their own. That morning’s post had brought no new letter for Daisy and she was finding it harder to focus on her work.

“For heaven’s sake, Daisy!” Mrs Patmore cried, as Daisy dropped an empty pan with a loud bang on the kitchen floor. “What’s up with you child, you’re all thumbs today!”

“Sorry Mrs Patmore,” Daisy said automatically, as she quickly retrieved the fallen pan.

“Are you alright, Daisy?” Mrs Bird asked, rushing into the kitchen at the clashing sound of the falling pot. She only needed to take one look at Daisy to realise that her clumsiness was a far cry from her usual, absent-minded, inattentive self

Daisy was just about to automatically answer that she was fine, but the sudden kindness of Mrs Bird had brought tears to her eyes. Mrs Bird, who had a little more patience than Mrs Patmore for the kitchen staff, came over and gently took hold of Daisy’s shoulders and looked her in the eye. Ignoring Mrs Patmore’s fierce gaze, she gave Daisy a few moments to compose herself before she prompted her again for an explanation.

“It’s William, Mrs Bird,” Daisy sniffled, “I... I think somethin’s happened to him.”

“Why do you think that my dear?” Mrs Patmore enquired gently.

“I ain’t heard from him for nearly 2 weeks!” Daisy cried, quickly wiping her tears away with her hands.

Mrs Bird gave her a few more moments, before Mrs Patmore’s venomous gaze became too much for even her. “There, there child.” Mrs Bird’s voice was full of sympathy and concern as she let go of Daisy and gave her the best warm smile she could manage. “There’s no use worrying about something you can’t do nought about. William’s a grown lad, he can look after himself.” Mrs Bird then looked at the big bowl of soup Mrs Patmore had rather loudly placed on the table beside them. “Now dry your eyes and hurry back to work before the other servants start revolting!”

“Yes Mrs Bird,” Daisy answered, quickly wiping her eyes and feeling very far from comforted at the cook’s rather unsympathetic words. She quickly picked up the soup pan, just about managing to stop any soup from pouring out in her haste to leave the kitchen and hurry to the servants hall.

After Daisy had rushed out, Mrs Patmore’s stern face broke down into a look of concern for Daisy and for William. Mrs Bird echoed her expression and the silent worries passed between them. Despite outward appearances, Mrs Bird knew how much Mrs Patmore cared for the servants under her charge, especially Daisy, though she knew better than to ever comment on it. As it was, she and Mrs Patmore did occasionally have their disagreements and had developed a sort of good cook, bad cook persona for the other servants. They always joined forces wherever Mrs Hughes was concerned though and, if any of the hospital staff ever dared venture down into their lair, they’d soon learn their mistake when faced with the combined wrath of the two cooks!

Whilst Mrs Bird didn’t know Daisy or William as well as Mrs Patmore, she herself was feeling quite worried for the young servants. When the hospital invaded and Mrs Bird became an almost permanent extra cook, William had already left to fight, but Mrs Bird knew how highly the other staff thought of the second footman. She had also developed rather a soft spot for the unfortunate scullery maid and, perhaps in a way of defiance against Mrs Patmore, she did not mind showing her fondness for the girl. Daisy was rather slow and distracted at times, but she had a kind heart and a rather endearing cheerfulness and optimism about her. Ever since Mrs Bird had seen Daisy’s tears after she’d tried to sabotage her cooking, she’d felt a sort of motherly affection for the poor girl.

“I hope poor William’s alright.” Mrs Patmore began, betraying the deepness of her concern in her voice. Noticing this, Mrs Patmore stiffened up somewhat again and said, keeping her voice as light hearted and patronisingly normal as she could manage, “That Daisy is bad enough on the best of days; she won’t be good for anyone if she continues all this moping!”

Daisy was finding it difficult to stop moping though and the melancholy thoughts about William kept on pushing into her mind. With the gossip of Mr Crawley’s injuries still so fresh and vivid in her thoughts, images of William meeting a similar or worse fate troubled her greatly. In her rush, and so wrapped up in her anxieties, she didn’t notice Mrs Hughes in the corridor.

“Mind where you’re going Daisy!” Mrs Hughes exclaimed, quickly moving out of the way and grabbing one side of the tilting soup pan before the contents ended up on her frock.

“Sorry Mrs Hughes,” Daisy gushed, as she quickly continued past and into the servants hall. With very little care, she placed the soup pan on the large table and Anna had to quickly jump up and hold the pan to prevent it spilling over.

“Take care, Daisy,” Anna said, her voice more stern than she intended after being faced with the prospect of hot soup on her lap.

“I’m sorry, Anna,” Daisy found herself apologising yet again. She saw all the hungry servants watching her and quickly picked up the ladle to fill up Anna’s bowl. When most of that ended up on the table rather than the bowl, Mr Carson decided to avoid any further catastrophes and stepped in.

“Sit down a minute, Daisy,” Mr Carson ordered. He sat up straight in his chair and cast a reproving eye over the few girls who’d started to giggle at Daisy’s clumsiness.

“Yes Mr Carson,” Daisy replied, quickly sitting down next to Anna by the table.

Anna took the opportunity to immediately seize control of the soup pan and, after ladling herself a generous portion, she passed it down to the other servants out of harms way.

Mr Carson watched Daisy then, waiting for clarification for her odd behaviour. She was sat fidgeting, nervously twisting her pinafore in her hands. She looked like she’d fallen back into her wandering thoughts, so Mr Carson pressed her for the non forthcoming explanation. “May I ask, Daisy, what is troubling you?”  




“I’m sorry, Mr Carson,” Daisy apologised yet again, she’d found it was always the safest reply to give to the butler. “It’s just that I’m worried about William as I ain’t heard from him and somethin’ may’ve happened to him and… and…” Daisy’s voice trailed off as the tears started to flow. Anna kindly put her arm around Daisy as the poor girl tried to hide her tears.

Mr Carson and Mrs Hughes, who had heard Daisy’s news upon entering the servants hall, exchanged worried glances. They were both very fond of William and knew, like Anna, that the lack of correspondence from him was very strange and unsettling. William had turned out to be an avid writer and letters from him appeared frequently to several of the servants.

The other servants at the table had quietened down now and the soup lay all but forgotten in front of them. The newer maids didn’t know William, but they’d all heard him mentioned enough, especially by the star struck Daisy.

As butler, Mr Carson felt it was his job to say something, but he struggled to find a positive thought amidst his worries. Mrs Hughes saved him from a reply though as she exclaimed, “I’m sure there’s a good reason for why William hasn’t written yet Daisy.” Her voice didn’t quite have the same ring of authority and certainty as it usually did though and everyone noticed the concerned looks that had passed between the butler and the housekeeper.

As Daisy looked set to break down into more tears, Anna gave her shoulder a squeeze and gave her a reassuring smile. “What’d I tell you last night, Daisy? William’s probably been too busy to write, or the last letter has just got lost in the post.”

“I s’pose so,” Daisy answered, wiping her eyes again on her pinafore. She gave Anna a weak smile, the words of her friend helping much more than the other servants to calm her agitated state. 

“Well I certainly have not heard any news,” Mr Carson chipped in. “And I am sure his Lordship would have heard straight away if anything had happened to one of Downton’s footmen.” Mr Carson didn’t know whether this was true or not, but poor Daisy didn’t have to know that.

“Have you heard anything, Mr Bates?” Anna asked the valet, who was sitting opposite her at the table.

“I haven’t I’m afraid, no,” Mr Bates answered, “but then William doesn’t write to me that often, so there’s no worry there.” It did cause worry though and the servants troubled thoughts sank deeper into melancholy and wild imaginations began to take hold. Visions and rumours of the horror of Mr Crawley’s injuries last night were tormenting their minds, reminding them all that the terrors of war still haunted them, even whilst they were far away and safe within the walls of Downton Abbey.

Mrs Hughes was sensing the despondent atmosphere and knew that distraction, and work, was the best cure for them all. Though she understood and felt the concern the other servants had for William’s possible fate, she also knew that there were jobs to be done and a group of anxious servants would not be good for anything.

“I’m sure there’s nothing to worry about,” Mrs Hughes eventually said, keeping her countenance as stern as she could manage. She cast a reproachful look around the servants and they quickly dropped their heads and began eating again. 

Mrs Hughes then nodded at the bowl of soup Anna had kindly placed in front of Daisy. “Now then, Daisy, you better hurry up eating that soup and get back to work, otherwise Mrs Patmore may send out a search party.”

“Yes Mrs Hughes,” Daisy answered as she quickly gulped down the soup in front of her. The reassuring words of the other servants and the warm delicious soup did nothing to assail Daisy’s worries though. The simple and relatively disaster free tasks that Mrs Patmore had decided to give Daisy that afternoon, for fear it was all the poor girl could manage, were still clumsily and ineptly completed. Thoughts of William lying in a ditch somewhere, far worse off than Mr Crawley, refused to leave Daisy’s mind and she could not settle or force her thoughts back towards her work. The worried glances from the other servants which often drifted her way did nothing to help keep her anxiety and worry at bay. Though if ever there was any greater proof of Daisy’s obvious distress, it was in the lack of reprimands from Mrs Patmore that day.

 


	9. Chapter 9

Despite their differences in status and class, Daisy had quite a lot in common with Lady Mary that day. She too was feeling agitated and worried, though at least Mary’s anxiety was of her own making. Mary knew she’d been told many times now that Matthew would recover, but she wasn’t quite sure she could believe it, that she dared hope. He still looked so pale, his face so battered and bruised and the bandages that covered his injuries were a constant reminder of what he’d been through. He was so quiet and motionless, so peaceful and distance and far too rarely did his eyes flicker open, revealing their brilliant blueness and the sign of life in him. Mary simultaneously dreaded and pleaded for his eyes to remain open, for his lips to speak and for him to see her and finally reveal what he now felt for her.

Mary had sat and watched his beautiful face all day nearly, her eyes unable to look away for fear she may miss the moment he awoke. For a reason Mary did not want to try to comprehend, she wanted her face to be the first thing that Matthew saw when he finally regained consciousness. Cousin Isobel had sat with her and they had both remained relatively silent, each lost in their own thoughts and feelings. Mary had been incredibly grateful for the silence, for the lack of small talk and the lack of conversation about her own, somewhat strange behaviour. It wasn’t like her, all this, sitting so long, not speaking, not doing anything but watching Matthew’s face, watching his eyes quiver and his lips tremble. She’d held his hand too; the comfort of feeling the warmth of his fingertips bringing reassurance that he was still here, with her. It was the only intimacy she would allow herself, especially with Cousin Isobel watching. It gave her comfort, peace and she treasured it greatly, savouring the feel of his hand in hers, already preparing herself for a time when it would no longer be allowed.

Mary was far from still though, the restless energy and agitation grating on her nerves and increasing her anxiety and frustration. Whenever his eyes strayed open for longer than a few seconds, Mary would find herself suddenly leaning forwards, sometimes standing up, bringing her face close to his in case he was finally shaking off the slumber that possessed him. When his eyes closed again, Mary would sink once more into melancholy, her doubts and anxieties pushing at her and warring with the sense of peace and comfort she also derived from holding his hand and simply being in his presence.

She’d been through so much emotionally recently that Mary was finding it hard to think what she _should_ behave like, what she _should_ feel. She knew at the back of her mind she was behaving inappropriately, that propriety dictated she wait with her family for news or keep herself busy elsewhere, but she couldn’t bring herself to leave his side. This overwhelming desire to stay with him, to hold his hand and watch his face, was not familiar to her and it confused her greatly. The events of last night had proved how deeply she loved him, how important he was to her life, but she didn’t know if this helped explain away her strange, almost trance like behaviour. All she knew was that she couldn’t bring herself to leave him, that she couldn’t bare to be apart from her beloved Matthew. So she had sat, watching his face, holding his hand, both fearing and hoping for him to wake, unsure of what his reaction would be when he finally regained consciousness and saw her.

At some point in the day, around noon she would guess, the nurses and Dr Morris had come in to check on their patient. It was only at Isobel’s strong urging did they manage to convince Mary to reluctantly leave the room so they could tend to him. Cousin Isobel had pressed on Mary that it was in Matthew’s best interest that the wounds be seen to and she pointed out, incredibly delicately, that Mary herself was in need of a change. Mary had to admit that she was right about that. A tentative hand to her hair told her how wild and disarrayed it was and she realised she was still wearing her evening gown. It was her favourite dress, the black netted one with the ivory under slip and the exquisite beading at the front. It also happened to be the one she was wearing when Matthew had proposed to her so long ago and it struck her as strange now that she came to be wearing it last night. It was hardly appropriate attire for the day though and she reluctantly let Cousin Isobel usher her out of the room, with promises that she could return soon. As she walked away, she took one last longing look at Matthew before the nurses gathered around the bed, obscuring her view and then rudely closing the door in her face. Even then, Mary still found herself dawdling outside, unable to completely walk away. It was only when a passing housemaid caught her eye did Mary’s propriety and dignity kicked in. Regaining all the regal demeanour she could manage, she asked the maid to send for Anna and then began walking slowly to her room

She was surprised at how much each step seemed to pain her, weigh on her heart as she became further and further away from Matthew. She paused when she passed the main balcony and looked down on the hall and saloon that stretched in front of her. The rooms were calm and empty now, all the soldiers that had arrived with Matthew seen to in the earlier hours of the morning by Dr Morris and Dr Clarkson, who had refused to leave whilst there was work to be done. The rooms were so eerily silent and orderly, a far cry from the image it conjured up in her mind of last night. Then the scene had been awash with beds and bloody soldiers, scurrying nurses and anxious servants and, most painful of all, her beloved Matthew, so brutally injured and close to death. As the agonising pain she’d felt last night surged into her memory, she tried to push it away with the vision of Matthew this morning. A vision of his face bathed in golden sunlight, his blue eyes dazzlingly bright in the stark contrast of his pale, scarred skin. The vision cheered her slightly and with more light hearted footsteps she continued to her room, shutting the door firmly behind her whilst she waited for Anna. Those few minutes she was alone, with nothing but her quarrelling thoughts for company, had been a strange mixture of luxury and turmoil. Away from the distraction of Matthew, her feelings had taken control completely and caused her to repeatedly pace across the floor with angry, irritated footsteps before collapsing with melancholy exhaustion on her bed. After only a few moments, her restless anxiety would resurface and she would begin pacing yet again.

It was in this almost frantic state that Anna had found her Ladyship and her obvious surprise and uncertainty of what to say and do was not lost on Lady Mary. She tried to compose herself quickly and issued to Anna a few instructions on what she would wear before sinking yet again into her nervous tension. Mary was incredibly relieved at that moment to have such an intelligent, understanding and trustworthy ladies maid. Anna sensed immediately Mary’s distress and quickly set to in helping her change, intuitively realising that silence was best and speed uppermost. It struck Mary then, as it often did, how preposterous it was that she, a grown woman, needed another woman to dress her, but both her mother and granny had insisted on maintaining decorum even now. That meant corsets and fiddly dresses; something Mary wouldn’t manage herself even in the best of times. Anna soon helped Mary change into something much more suitable, an elegant yet simple day dress. Even in her state, Mary knew it suited her very well, though she was loathe to admit her reasons for caring about her appearance at this moment. Her hair was the next priority, but as Anna began to straighten it, Mary’s patience began to snap. If she hadn’t been so consumed with her own warring thoughts, she would have felt quite sorry for Anna then, trying to fix her hair while she sat fidgeting so. She was fiddling with everything on her dressing table and could not be more relieved when Anna finally finished sorting out her hair. She had jumped up almost immediately and, with a silent look of thanks towards Anna, rushed out of her room and back towards Matthew’s.

When she opened the door to Matthew’s room, Mary was incredibly pleased to see that all the nurses and the doctor had gone. It was just Cousin Isobel again and she gave Mary a warm smile when she entered; politely not saying a word as Mary quickly sat down and took hold of Matthew’s hand again. She looked anxiously at Matthew’s face, selfishly relieved to see there had been no change and she had not missed him awakening. Whilst Mary felt somewhat better for being cleaned up, it wasn’t long before her earlier jumbled thoughts crept back into her mind and began fighting within her again. Time again had started to slip away and the day was spent with Mary plagued by her alternate hopes and dreams and doubts and fears, one minute restless and anxiously searching Matthew’s face when his eyes began flickering, the next descending into despondency and despair as Matthew sank again into slumber. The constant switching of her thoughts and emotions were spinning her insides around like a leaf caught in the fiercest gale. It was threatening to drive her into a breakdown and only the tranquillity of Matthew’s face and the comfort of his hand in hers grounded her to reality. 

When her family suddenly entered the room, at some point in the afternoon, Mary had been so surprised that she’d jumped up, looking and feeling incredibly guilty. If her thoughts had been more coherent, she might have actually realised that her sudden movement and culpable expression raised far more eyebrows than had she simply been seen holding the hand of her wounded cousin. Mary was mortified at the knowing glances that passed between her parents, especially when she noticed granny behind them. She quickly tried to compose herself, but found she was not yet capable of small talk and was grateful when Cousin Isobel responded to their enquires on Matthew’s state. They stayed for a few minutes, exchanging pleasantries and Mary was only able to find her voice when her mother pressed her to come to dinner that evening. Mary shook her head adamantly, trying to think of a suitable argument for her to stay with Matthew, without revealing how important it was to her.

“I’m not that hungry mama,” Mary began, “besides, I couldn’t leave Cousin Isobel all alone.” She gave the woman an apologetic smile, hoping she would not mind Mary using her to formulate her excuses.

“Cousin Isobel can eat with us too, of course,” Cora answered, first looking at Mary and then nodding at Isobel. Mary hoped her family wouldn’t notice her slightly panic stricken look then, unable to come up with any other defence for why she should stay with Matthew.

Luckily Cousin Isobel had her wits about her and stepped in, though whether it was for her own sake or Mary’s, she wasn’t sure. “If it’s not too much trouble, I would prefer to stay with my son. If she doesn’t mind, it would be most kind if Mary could keep me company.”

 “It would not be any trouble at all, Isobel,” Robert answered kindly. “I’ll have Carson bring you some food if you and Mary would like to stay here.” Robert took that moment to give his eldest daughter a quick once over. He was secretly pleased to see that she had changed and was looking somewhat better than she had last night. He knew she was far from content though and that she was still worrying about Matthew. Like all of them, until Matthew was properly awake and they knew his injuries were healing, the worries and anxieties were still there bubbling underneath the surface. Sensing that Mary was anxious to be left alone again, and knowing full well that Matthew needed as little to disturb his sleep as possible, he decided it was time they all made their excuses.

“Well, as it is nearly time for dinner, we’d best get ready and leave Matthew in peace!” He began ushering them out of the room then, not particularly surprised that they were all reluctant to leave. His mother proved the most reluctant and Robert knew just how shocked she’d been when she had first seen Matthew’s state.

As soon as her family had left, Mary felt incredibly relieved to be, almost, on her own again with Matthew and immediately sank down into her chair again. Whilst she still couldn’t bring herself to meet Cousin Isobel’s eye, she no longer felt quite as self conscious about holding Matthew’s hand. She quickly picked it up, again savouring the feel of his warm touch in her palm. Without any more distractions, Mary found herself falling back into the troubled abyss of her warring thoughts. They began turning over yet again, fighting with themselves and chasing each other around, unable to leave her settled and unable to leave her employed. She had a distant feeling that time was passing, that the sun pouring through the window was shifting position and then slowly fading. The day was coming to an end and Mary was not sure if this pleased her or not. Every passing minute was a minute closer to Matthew awakening and her own final judgement and reckoning. The moment when she would discover just what Matthew now felt towards her and what course her entire future would take. When her thoughts were turning towards hope, towards the possible reconciliation for her and Matthew, the hours, the minutes, seem to stretch into infinity. When her worries and anxieties began to chase her hopes away, time suddenly sped up, the moment when all her fears and doubts would be confirmed rushing towards her with a terrorising rapidity.

When the sunlight had all but faded in the sky and the dazzling orange and pink of the sunset thrown across the room had faded, Mary was momentarily stirred from her musings as Carson came in with some food and light for her and Cousin Isobel.

“You really must try to eat something, Mary,” Isobel urged as Mary pushed away the tray of food Carson had gently laid beside her before closing the thick curtains. She hadn’t touched a morsel all day and Isobel was becoming quite worried. “You really need to keep your strength up.”

“What on earth for!” Mary exclaimed with more petulance than she felt. She immediately felt guilty, both at her cutting words and the look of hurt on Cousin Isobel’s face. She didn’t quite know how to apologise then though, so she quickly averted her gaze down and looked at the tray of food. The thought of eating turned her stomach, her warring thoughts and restless tension too strong for her to contemplate eating. She saw Cousin Isobel still watching her though and, as a way of admitting her apology, she did her best to eat a few scraps. The food tasted like sawdust in her mouth, but she forced down a good portion, each bite encouraged by the growing smile and delight she felt emanating from Cousin Isobel.

She had to admit she did indeed feel better for eating and she knew that Cousin Isobel did too, both for herself and for Mary. It wasn’t long after Carson had returned to clear the mess away and bring them more light that tiredness got the better of her cousin. She smiled across at Mary, reflecting again her new found respect and admiration for the aristocratic lady, before she let her eyes close and her head droop. Her slumber this time was more peaceful, deep and fulfilling now that she knew her son was safe.

Mary again felt herself losing track of time and, after a while, she glanced over at Cousin Isobel, saw her head still down and her eyes still closed. Her steady breathing could be heard clearly in the quiet of the room and Mary knew she was in a deep sleep. Mary herself felt too agitated for sleep, too over exerted to know that she would not find her rest. But with Cousin Isobel asleep it gave Mary confidence, the luxury of feeling that it was, at that moment, just her and Matthew. His eyes were still flickering and Mary gave in to the urge she’d been fighting all day, the urge she’d denied herself for fear of her cousin’s reaction. She slowly reached out and gently caressed his face, letting her fingers brush the bruises and cuts that jagged across his porcelain skin. She savoured every touch, every caress, as if trying to commit them to memory, for a time when the intimacies would no longer be allowed between them.

Her fingertips followed his cheek bone, met his jaw line and then paused for a moment, suddenly unsure. Then, with the lightest of touches and trembling hands, she traced the line of his lips with her fingertips. As a jolt of electricity ran through her, she quickly pulled her hand away, suddenly feeling guilty and shameful for her actions. Her gaze quickly shifted from his lips to his eyes and she saw that they were open, the bright blueness so intense and full of emotion her heart suddenly stopped beating. Their gazes held for what felt like an eternity, full of unspoken but unmistakable emotions; longing, passion, desire, pain, bitterness, sorrow, but above all, a deep and soulful love. In that moment Mary felt her heart simultaneously shatter into pieces and swell to fill her chest, crushing her lungs so she could hardly breathe. He tried to speak then, his voice barely a whisper, barely a movement of the air, but the word was distinct, clear as ice on a frozen lake and it struck her to her very being. “Mary.” Then, sleep overtook him again and he slipped away into slumber, his eyes drifting closed.

Mary found herself unable to tear her gaze away from his closed eyes, her heart pounding so loudly in her chest she feared it would wake Cousin Isobel, the sound echoing round the room with all the loudness of a thunderstorm overhead. When she finally remembered how to breathe, it was shallow and strained and Mary found herself quite incapable of movement. The emotions that had struck her down as she’d looked into his eyes were battling around inside her, spinning her thoughts into a tempest of conflict and confusion. She didn’t know what to think, what to feel, what to make of the deep and powerful emotions she thought she’d seen in his eyes.

Don’t be silly, she eventually told herself, forcing herself to calm down and breathe deeply until her heartbeat started to return to normal. It was nothing, nothing but the pain from his injuries and the confusion from his deep sleep. There was nothing else there. She forced herself to repeat the words in her mind, making herself accept them and refusing to allow herself any deeper thought on the matter. It helped calm her mind, but her heart was far from convinced, though it seemed to know better than to speak at present. As she forced her mind into composure, the exhaustion that had been refusing to come all day finally took hold. She felt her eyes start to struggle to stay open and her mind begin to shut down. Stifling a sudden yawn, Mary took one last look at her beloved Matthew, his face still peaceful and his eyes still closed. Then, she let herself give in to the sudden impulse she felt and gently rested her head on his chest, the slight movement of his breathing still noticeable even through the blanket which he lay under. She felt an overwhelming sense of peace then and, still unable to let go of his hand, she let the quiet, rhythmic sound of his heartbeat lull her into a deep and restful, reassuring sleep.

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Thanks for reading and I hope you're enjoying it. More chapters will be on their way soon!


	10. Chapter 10

The shouts and screams that were echoing around his ears were making it hard for him to concentrate. The almost melodic booming of the continual gunfire and explosions were drowning out his thoughts and the sound of his voice as he shouted commands at his men. Over all this cacophonous noise though, he suddenly recognised one voice, one shout for help and he immediately stopped. He looked around, trying to find the source of the voice, but he couldn’t see anything. With an ineffectual shout and a much more successful hand single to his men to stay where they were, he turned towards the sound. The mud oozing between his boots made walking difficult and with very careful footsteps and much slipping, he made his way towards the voice. The rain pouring down was washing mud into his eyes, making it difficult to see and more than once did he slip or trip over a body that was lying beneath him. He didn’t look down though, he’d learned by now to stay focused and not seek out the face of the poor soldier below, not when no sound could be heard and the body was unmoveable beneath him. He scrambled up quickly, trying to negotiate his way towards the familiar voice that was crystal clear amongst the sounds of so much damage and destruction, so much pain and suffering.

When he approached the voice, he saw the soldier lying wounded on the ground, his leg caught beneath another body, a dead weight which the injured soldier was unable to move. He called out to the soldier, who looked up and almost smiled as he saw the familiar face. He quickened his pace now and just about managed not to fall again in the mud as he reached the soldier. With his words somewhat lost to the perpetual gunfire and shouts and screams that surrounded him, he tried to give some encouragement to the injured soldier. He quickly pushed the dead body away, the injured soldier fruitlessly trying to help him. As he looked down, he saw that the soldier’s leg was broken and he would not be able to walk. Without a second thought, and ignoring the sudden protests from the soldier, he leant down and slipped his arms under him. As gently as he could, whilst trying not to slip in the mud, he helped the soldier up, supporting him as best he could as the soldier was too tall and heavy for him to carry. He heard the man cry out in pain as he tried to put weight on his broken leg and it was with little progress that they began walking back to the trenches, hobbling through the thickening quagmire of mud and broken bodies.

Something suddenly flew past their heads and the two soldiers watched its progress as fear slowly began to fill their hearts and terror began to take over their minds. They saw it arc through the grey sky and land a few feet away from them, just where the injured soldier had been lying a few moments ago. They’d seen many of them before of course, even hurled several of them over the trenches themselves, but never had a live one been so close to their feet before. As the world suddenly went into slow motion, he knew he had to run, that he had just a few seconds of time remaining before his life shattered into oblivion. His thoughts suddenly clicked into complete clarity and as adrenaline surged through him, he acted on impulse, without thinking or feeling as all emotions and sensations became shut down. The soldier he was supporting tried to push him away, tried to free himself so that he was no longer a burden, but he wouldn’t let him. Instead, he pushed the soldier around in front of him, away from the fallen grenade and used his own body as a shield to protect the soldier. Then, with all the strength and energy he could muster, he threw himself and the soldier forward, away from the grenade that lay so close, for a moment seeming so harmless, so innocent, just lying there.

Then the earth shattering boom of the detonating grenade filled his heart and soul and reached every fibre of his being. The shock wave of the explosion propelled them both further forward and, after what felt like an eternity of being hurtled through the air like a fallen leaf caught in an autumn gale, he eventually landed on the suddenly unyielding and firm ground. He tried his best not to crush the injured soldier beneath him as the impact sent another shockwave through him, reverberating through his body and jarring every single bone and muscle. Keeping his head down, he did his best to cover the body of the injured soldier as the shrapnel from the explosion cascaded down around them.

Then, all fell suddenly so still, so quiet and motionless after the devastation and destruction of the exploding grenade. In those few moments, all felt peaceful and safe and he looked down at the soldier beneath him, saw him breathing and knew he was still alive, though it appeared that the impact had knocked him unconscious

Slowly then feelings, sensations and emotions started flooding back, breaking down the walls his mind had automatically erected in the face of danger. He slowly became aware of the deafening sound of his pounding heart and heavy breathing and the shouts and screams of the continuing battle around him. As the adrenaline that had cursed through him began to dissipate, it was replaced with a searing, blinding pain. Every single ounce of his being started to cry out with it and it ricocheted through his mind, increasing in intensity with every heartbeat. He tried to move away from the unconscious soldier, but he was unable to, the pain freezing his body in place so it could hardly move. He just about managed to roll off the soldier and onto his side in the mud. He felt his face starting to sink into it then and he tasted the acrid earth on his tongue. As the pain continued to torment him, his vision started blurring, his hearing became fuzzy and he started to sink down into the blackness and into the suffocating, choking mud. He tried desperately to cling to reality, to not let himself become consumed by the darkness and the pain, but it was futile. As his mind rushed through all the memories of his life, one word became crystal clear in the darkness, one word sprang from his lips. He heard himself shout it out, distantly heard it echo around the battlefield, louder than any gunshot or grenade, before the blackness and the suffocating mud claimed him and he sank into oblivion. “Mary!”

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As the blackness continued to consume him, a few sensations would sometimes work their way into the edge of his subconscious. He’d suddenly become aware of distant sounds, lights and movements around him, disjointed sensations that fell like jigsaw pieces through his starved mind. As he tried to put the pieces together, to grasp onto the sensations and understand them, they would slip away and leave him with nothing but blackness once again. There were times he thought he heard voices, military, authoritative voices, issuing orders above him. He thought he felt movement, felt himself lifted up and carried, but it was all so distant, so difficult to clarify in his mind. He would almost have thought it was a dream, except it was accompanied by pain. A pain like he never knew was possible, a pain that would soon start whenever any awareness broke through into the blackness. The pain would rush through his body and shatter his mind, pushing him yet again into the darkness, where he often found relief. At least in the darkness there was no pain.

He could not be aware of how much time was passing then, what was happening to him or where he was, but after a while the nature of the blackness shifted. Before it had been empty, a black void of nothingness; no feelings, thoughts or emotions, nothing save the disjointed sensations that sometimes filtered through into his subconscious and confused him. Slowly though, the confusions started to take hold, they began to find weight and foundation. The doubts and unanswered questions about what was happening to him began plaguing him, tormenting him. They followed him down into the blackness and gave him no peace. He found himself challenging his own sanity, the sensations around him so disjointed and incoherent he had nothing to hold onto. The rational part of his mind, that was growing ever smaller and distant now, knew he was at the beginnings of madness. Although it was unknown to him, the fever that had invaded his body had also started invading his mind. It twisted his thoughts, splitting his consciousness and plunging him to the brink of despair and anguish. It took over every rational part of his being and even the searing pain that still agonised his body was pushed out. Occasionally though, the pain would overwhelm him and he’d distantly hear himself cry out in agony. The pain that was spreading through his haunted mind giving him a sort of relief from the madness, a fleeting sense of his own self once more. The madness would soon find him again though, torment him and drag him down into terror, trying to convince him to give in, to stop fighting. He wanted to give in, to let the madness fully take hold and leave him in peace, to let himself slip away from the torture and from reality.

Something was stopping him though; something was holding him to this world, to this life. At first his fever ridden mind couldn’t make it out, couldn’t grasp it, but it slowly grew, becoming more distinct. It became a voice, a crystal clear voice in the sea of his madness and pain. A voice he recognised, a voice that had haunted his dreams since the first day he had met her. It called his name, pleaded with him, begged him to come back and not leave her. It was a voice he couldn’t resist, he’d never been able to, and it pulled him up, through the layers of madness and pain, through the suffering and turmoil, growing louder and louder. He became aware of her touch too, her closeness and warmth and it helped give him the strength to fight the madness, to find the will to live. As he let himself focus on her voice, her touch, he felt the madness start to lose its hold. It was still there, trying to torment him, but it had lost its potency. It then began to dissipate, slowly leaving him be to slip away back into the blackness once more. It was peaceful this time though, safe, and it was accompanied by the feeling of his beloved Mary so close to him. She was the last thing he remembered, the last memory of his ordeal, before it all shattered and fell away, lost in the distance as the blackness took him away.

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Once again the blackness consumed him and thoughts and sensations slowly teased his mind as he slipped in and out of consciousness. Like rainwater falling through cracks, they would percolate through into his mind, piercing the blackness and startling him back into what he thought was reality, though it was so distant, so faded, he couldn’t be sure. The voices he heard this time were warm, familiar and they played on the edge of his consciousness, teasing him with memories he couldn’t quite reach. He felt people beside him, two women especially who were incredibly dear to him, tenderly holding his hands, but he couldn’t quite place them. Sometimes he felt his eyes open and he was rewarded with a blindingly beautiful vision. He saw an angel before him, her face painfully exquisite as it glowed bright, the sunlight playing around her hair like a halo. He recognised this beautiful vision before him, her name was on the tip of his tongue, but always the blackness would close in around him before he could quite grasp it, the weakness taking over his body and pushing him back into sleep.

He sometimes wondered if it was all a vivid dream or perhaps he had somehow left this world and found his way to heaven. When the angel filled his vision, he might have been convinced he had, but the pain was still there, it simmered and seared in the background, tormenting him. People weren’t supposed to feel such pain in heaven, nor dreams. Pain like he’d never known before. It felt so strong, so real and only the beautiful sight of his angel leaning over him made it bearable. Once he even felt her touch, felt her fingertips gently caressing his face, his lips, her touch reminiscent of a lover. He’d looked into her eyes then too, saw such love and concern there that it nearly broke his heart. He wanted to gaze upon her face forever, to etch it into his very soul, but the blackness consumed him again, shattering the memory like a dream upon waking.

When he next opened his eyes, everything felt distinctly different, clearer somehow, brighter. He looked up and straight into the eyes of his beloved angel. He recognised her then, the sudden influx of memories taking his breath away as he looked into her strikingly beautiful face. It was shining golden in the early morning sunlight, the luminescent radiance bouncing off her silken brown hair and dazzling him. For a moment he wondered if this hauntingly beautiful vision could be real, if it was really her. Mary, his beloved Mary, looking down with such awe and delight in her eyes, such deep and searing love. He spoke then, heard his croaky voice whisper her name. “Mary?” He asked, afraid to believe it was really her. He wanted to say so much then, to pour out his very soul to her, but he couldn’t find the words, find his voice. He tried to sit up, to move himself closer to her, but as the pain ripped through his body it forced him to remain still, his face grimacing in pain. Mary must have seen the sudden pain in his eyes, for she suddenly looked at him in concern, her face suddenly darkening to worry.

“Don’t move, Matthew,” she said, her voice like rich honey running through his soul, filling him with warmth and pushing out the pain.

“Mary?” he asked again, his voice still so weak it was little above a whisper. There were so many questions he wanted to ask her, so many answers he needed, but he hardly dare believe she was real, hardly dare say or do anything in case he broke this glorious dream into pieces. If it was a dream, he wanted it to last forever, to see her looking down at him like that, to hear the sound of her voice. He felt her hand in his, felt the warmth emanating from her fingers, felt it begin surging through his veins, filling every fibre of his being with sunshine. It all felt so real, surely it couldn’t still be a dream? He reached up then, his arm heavy, painful, but he didn’t care. He lifted his hand towards her, reaching out and gently touching her face, running his fingers down her cheek, savouring every touch. Her skin burned, or perhaps it was his fingertips, for that moment Mary suddenly jumped, standing up and moving away from him. She looked scared then; frightened and panicked and he didn’t understand why.

“Mary?” he asked again, his voice questioning and more distinct now, less croaky as he shook off the last lingering doubts from his mind. He knew it was no dream now, that somehow, miraculously, Mary was standing there in front of him, her eyes darting about in fear. As the knowledge sank in, so did a thousand distant memories, suddenly rushing through his mind and causing him nothing but conflict and confusion. Memories of her voice, bringing him back from the brink of madness, from the edge of death; of his angel, her face glowing golden and her fingers touching his cheek, his lips; of her beautiful eyes and the look of deep concern and love he thought he’d seen there. They played about on the edge of his reason, teasing him of what might have been, of what could have happened. He didn’t know if they were real, he couldn’t be sure if they were part of this reality or part of the dream state he’d been lingering in for so long. All he knew was that he had woken today to find her holding his hand, that he had seen and felt something in her eyes and that now she was backing away from him, the distance between them growing in more ways than physical length. He could almost see her building walls around her heart and soul and it pained him in a way his injuries never could. The hand that had touched her cheek was still there, hanging in the air and reaching out towards her.

“Mary.” He said her name again, calling to her, trying to find a way through her defences and reason to the tender heart he knew beat within.

“I’ll… I’ll just go find your mother,” she answered, trying hard yet unsuccessfully, even to him, to make her voice measured and calm, her countenance strong and controlled.

Mother? The thought of his mother being here seemed almost as strange and miraculous as Mary. He watched her walk out of the room then, heard himself call her name one last time. His voice a plea this time, full of longing and confusion, willing her to stay, to not leave him, not now. It was too late though, for that moment she turned and almost fled out of the door, banging it shut behind her.

He tried to move forward then, the ludicrous thought that he could somehow run after her momentarily in his thoughts. The simmering pain, that he’d so far managed to push to the edge of his mind, suddenly rushed through him again, preventing him from moving further. The pain was nothing to him then though, barely a nuisance as all the hopes and dreams he scarcely allowed himself to acknowledge shattered to pieces around him. They merged with the sound of his breaking heart as he looked at the door Mary had just banged shut behind her. 


	11. Chapter 11

As the door slammed shut behind her, Mary heard it echo down the empty corridor. Long after it had died away, she felt it reverberate round her mind, the sound almost as loud as her pounding heart and her shallow, quick breathing. Almost subconsciously, she found herself automatically checking the corridor for servants or members of her family, afraid any of them would find her in this state.

She didn’t go and find Matthew’s mother straight away. Instead she leant against the closed door, letting it support her weight as her legs became unsteady and her body weak. She forced herself to take deep breaths, filling her lungs with rich, much needed air as her heartbeat finally started to slow down.

Her thoughts were far from settled though, they ricocheted through her mind, one chasing after another before it had even been realised. She tried to grab onto them, tried to understand and comprehend them, but they darted through too quickly. Images of the last few minutes spun around in her mind and left her reeling and confused. She tried her best to work out what she’d seen, what had happened to her and, most importantly of all, what Matthew now thought of her.

That morning she’d awoken to find him still asleep, his eyes firmly closed and his heartbeat steady beneath her cheek. She’d remained there for several moments, letting the wonderful sound of his steady breathing and the comfort of his closeness gently bring her out of her slumber. She’d allowed herself those few, brief moments of peace and tranquillity, basking in his warmth and nearness and letting her imagination take hold. In those few moments she hadn’t even tried to stop the visions from floating through her mind, of her waking every morning like this, with her head resting on his chest and his hand in hers. She’d felt him stirring then, felt his body start to move beneath her and she’d quickly sat up and looked at him. She’d seen his eyes start to flicker and she’d leant over him, searching his face for any further signs of consciousness. His eyes had opened then, fully, suddenly, and it had caught Mary completely off guard. Like prey caught in the predators gaze, she’d been unable to look away, unable to hide the emotions and thoughts she’d been feeling. Mary didn’t even try to shield herself from him then, she knew it would do no good, and so she’d let Matthew see the love in her eyes, the concern she felt for him and her overwhelming happiness that he was now waking. His beautiful blue eyes had held hers in wonder and she’d watched him awaken, his eyes slowly becoming brighter, clearer as his mind struggled through into reality.

“Mary?” She’d heard him ask, his voice weak from lack of use and full of questions and doubts. He’d tried to move towards her, but the sudden pain that ran through him stopped him and was reflected in his face.

“Don’t move, Matthew,” she’d almost whispered, just about resisting the urge to place her hand on his chest to prevent him from moving. He’d looked so fragile, so helpless and lost below her, not at all like the Matthew she’d once known, and it scared her deeply.

“Mary?” He’d asked again, his eyes starting to focus on her, recognise her and Mary had felt as if the entire world was holding its breath. This was the moment of truth, the moment when she’d know what course her future happiness would take, the moment when she’d know what he now felt for her. She tried to piece together what she saw in those deep blue eyes, but all she could see was confusion, questions and doubts. What was lying beneath this, she could not tell; the slumber and uncertainty that had been plaguing him since his accident still taking a while to clear.

When he’d reached out and touched her cheek, his fingers had burned her, the electricity they sent hurtling though her veins suddenly snapping her into action. Without even realising it, she’d found herself jumping up and backing away from him, putting distance between them in the hope she could somehow gain a small measure of control, some small degree of dignity. The panic and fear and frustration and dread and hope and longing that she’d been feeling for so long now had wound up her thoughts and emotions tighter than a clock spring and his touch had caused it to snap. When the eye contact between them had broken, Mary had felt all these emotions and thoughts bombard her and she was suddenly very scared, anxious and desperate. She’d waited so long to see him again, to see his intense blue eyes gaze upon her, to hear his voice and to feel his touch, but now it had happened, the moment had finally come, Mary was frightened, panicked. She suddenly didn’t want to know what Matthew thought of her anymore, she couldn’t handle what implications it may have for her future happiness and his.

Mary had felt the panic rising within her then, growing stronger and mixing with the anxiety and agitation she’d felt ever since he’d arrived here, two nights ago. It was twisting her thoughts and bombarding her mind with questions she could not, did not, want answering. She couldn’t bear to look in his eyes anymore, to see what they would hold when the confusion faded. If she saw regard there, love for her, what should she do? Her ill fated night with Pamuk still hung like a guillotine blade above them, threatening to split them in two completely. Even if she could somehow tell him, if he could somehow come to terms with it, what then? She still didn’t deserve him, she wasn’t worthy of any of his love or affection. She knew she’d never be able to make up for all the hurt she’d unintentionally inflicted upon him. What if she saw nothing in his eyes? What if they became full of bitterness and anger? What would she do then? How would she be able to live with the look of hatred in his eyes and her own broken heart that she knew would never mend?

“Mary?” Matthew had asked again, his voice sounding so hurt, the hand that had touched her cheek reaching towards her. The hurt and pain in his voice had cut Mary deeply, but it also only confused her more. Her doubts and fears were still battling around inside her, warring with each other and preventing her from thinking straight. Was he hurt because she’d just jumped away from him? Was he hurt because he’d remembered what happened between them, how cruelly she had treated him? Was the hurt merely a reflection of everything he’d been through out on the battlefields, the pain from his injuries? Mary did not know; did not want to know, she was not brave enough to face whatever truth lay within his intense blue eyes and sorrowful voice.

She’d fought hard to gain control of her emotions then, to push down her feelings and not reveal them to Matthew, not when she was so uncertain of his feelings for her, but it was a losing battle. After everything she’d been through these last few days, she did not have enough strength left now to fight. When Matthew had called her name again, the voice clearer now, full of hurt and so many other emotions Mary did not, could not, allow herself to identify, she felt herself finally breaking down. It was suddenly all too much, all too frightening and more than she could bear. She needed air and she needed distance. Her natural instincts had kicked in then, self preservation finally taking hold, spurring her into action. It helped her regain some small morsel of dignity and maintain her composure long enough to mutter some excuse to Matthew, something about finding his mother, before she caved in completely and she fled the room. She’d banged the door behind her in her haste, cutting off Matthew’s last cry to her. His pleading cry, full of longing and confusion, was lost as the sound of the door slamming shut had filled Mary’s ears.

As Mary had leant against the shut door, her doubts and fears still haunted her, warring within her mind and turning her questions over and over again. What did Matthew now think of her? Just what had underlain the confusion and hurt she’d seen in his eyes? Had it been anger, bitterness, sorrow or perhaps… perhaps regard, maybe even love? Did he, could he possibly still truly care for her after all she’d put him through? Mary did not know and she couldn’t piece it all together in her mind, she didn’t even know if she wanted to, if it really mattered. Whatever he may now feel for her, he was better off without her. She couldn’t ever deserve him; she could never be his, not now that she was unvirtuous and had treated him so wrongly. As these thoughts started to take over, Mary felt her troubled mind start to calm, felt her conflicting thoughts start to be pushed down against her own reasoning and logic. It was better this way, better that she didn’t know whether he still cared for her.

She let herself touch her cheek then, still feeling her skin burn where he had touched her. She let herself imagine, just for a moment, what it would be like for Matthew to touch her again like that, to caress her skin and perhaps her lips; to kiss her and look deep into her eyes; to tell her that he loved her. He was only on the other side of the door she leant against. Mary knew she only had to open it and she’d see him, see his piercing blue eyes looking at her, hear his deep and wonderful voice talk to her, see what emotions laid within his eyes. Maybe she could even approach him, touch him, perhaps even kiss him; feel his fingers on her skin and his breath on her lips…

No. Mary quickly pushed the thoughts away. It would do no good, not now, now that she had ruined everything between them, had destroyed any happiness they might have shared with her stupid night with Pamuk. It pained her deeply, but she knew it was the best thing for both of them. Mary knew what she had to do now and the task, the purpose, the goal, gave her the strength she needed to see it through. She knew now she had to keep her distance from Matthew, if not physically, which she knew would be close to impossible, then at least emotionally. Whether he still cared for her or not, it was imperative that he never even suspect just how deeply she now realised she loved him, to not even be tempted to rekindle the regard he’d once held for her.

“Are you alright, Mary?” The gentle voice of Cousin Isobel asked her.

Mary suddenly jumped out her reverie and looked at the woman who was walking down the corridor towards her. Mary felt the blush creeping up into her cheeks as she became embarrassed to be caught in this state and her less than innocent thoughts about Matthew.

“It’s Matthew,” she answered quickly, dropping her head and refusing to meet Cousin Isobel’s eyes, “he’s awake.”

Isobel’s previous concern for Mary was quickly pushed away as her face brightened and the excitement bubbled through her. Mary just about had time to move out her way as the woman rushed past her and into the room.

Mary hung behind, not letting herself move far into the room, telling herself it was because she was kindly allowing Cousin Isobel time alone with her son. She watched her cousin rush forwards and draw Matthew to her, crushing him in an embrace that spoke volumes about her anxiety and worry these last few days. Mary knew the sudden movement must have caused Matthew a great deal of pain and she also realised that in her happiness, Cousin Isobel had forgotten this. Mary saw Matthew’s face constrict into agony, but he made no sound, not wanting to upset his mother who was so relieved to see him awake.

Mary found herself suddenly envious of Cousin Isobel, of the way she clung onto Matthew, holding him tightly. She herself wanted to do that, to wrap her arms around him and never let him go, to hold him close and feel the warmth of him crushed to her forever more. But she couldn’t, she knew that now, had always known it really, though only now did it appear so clearly to her.

She noticed Matthew watching her then, saw his eye catch hers over his mother’s shoulder, saw a flicker of wonder and doubt cross his face, clearly visible over the pain that was etched into it from his injuries. She felt his eyes searching hers, his sudden and intense gaze trying to read her soul. She knew then that he suspected something, that he had seen the look of longing in her own eyes. For the space of a heartbeat Mary considered giving up on her earlier promise to herself; her promise to stay emotionally clear of Matthew as she momentarily forgot all her reasons for needing to stay away. It was almost enough to send her carefully constructed facade crashing down again. She wanted to tell him then, tell him how much she loved him and how much her heart ached for him. She wanted to pour out her soul to him, to tell him everything about Pamuk and beg him to give her another chance. The words were almost on her lips when she stopped herself.

No. She couldn’t, she _wouldn’t_ hurt Matthew again, wouldn’t let him feel the pain of her own shame and have yet another reason to be disappointed in her. Besides, Mary told herself firmly, he probably didn’t care anymore. Why would he after all the hurt she’d put him through, after all the time he’d spent away, fighting in a bitter and bloody war that had nearly cost him his life? It wasn’t fair to make him have to deal with her complex, confused emotions now anyway, not when he had only just awakened from a life threatening fever. Whatever else may still be between them, the fact remained that he still needed time to heal, time to recover from the vicious wounds and trauma he had suffered in the war. Her own self centred thoughts only solidified things further for Mary, further proving just how much she could never deserve him.

All these thoughts and questions hurtled through Mary’s mind in rapid succession and helped her regain her composure and build up her determination. Her walls went up firmly around her heart then, built securely this time, reinforced with the knowledge that is was the best thing for both of them, the best thing for her beloved Matthew.

She knew he was still watching her, searching her eyes and Mary tried her hardest to make them as blank as she could, making sure he saw nothing within them but friendly, cousinly concern and happiness for him. She saw the walls start to go up around Matthew’s heart too, saw his eyes draw back from her, accepting what she wanted him to see. Just for a moment though, Mary thought she saw a flicker of sadness in his expression, of pain and heartbreak, just a small glimmer of what Matthew felt. But then it was gone, his eyes now distant, closed to her. Mary made herself push the thought away, didn’t dare even try to comprehend what it may mean, whether she even imagined it, saw what her heart wanted her to see.

Mary felt the distance growing between them, felt the coldness creeping in, like a glacier growing higher and stronger, pushing them further apart. It was for the best, Mary told herself again, repeating it in her mind like a mantra, willing herself to believe it, accept it. It helped Mary stay calm, it strengthened her resolve and helped her push away the doubts about her decision. She pushed them down, deep within her heart, burying them away under the thick foundations of the fortress that now shielded her heart and soul, cutting them off from Matthew, cutting them off from herself.

As Mary saw Matthew also lock himself away from her, she felt her own heart break. It had shattered so many times into so many pieces these last few days, Mary was amazed it still found the strength to keep beating. This time it was different though, this time it was final. She had lost Matthew for good and as this new knowledge hit her, Mary felt the panic start to rise up within her again. She felt it reverberate around her carefully constructed barriers, making them tremble and quake. Mary knew she had to escape then, had to widen not just the emotional distance between them, but the physical distance too. With as much composure as she could muster, and avoiding Matthew’s now cold eyes, she quickly informed them, “I’m just going to tell papa the good news.”

Telling herself, and almost believing it, that Mary was only leaving Matthew alone so he could spend some time with his mother, Mary quickly turned and fled the room once more. She tried to push down the feeling that she was simply running away and continued the mantra in her mind. Matthew was better off without her. She could never let him know what she really felt for him, or let herself find out what he thought of her. It was for the best.

 


End file.
